


Merger of Equals

by ElderlySardine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accounting, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Casual Sex, Colleagues to Lovers, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, Fat Shaming, First Kiss, First Time, Gabriel is a dick, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Slow Burn, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28944390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElderlySardine/pseuds/ElderlySardine
Summary: Six years ago, a merger between two charities threw accountants Crowley and Aziraphale together. At work they complete each other's sentences, but there's no chance they would ever spend time together without being paid to do so, right?Now with their charity on the rocks the pair are set to lose everything, including their relationship with each other. Can they work things out before it's too late? Who stole all the charity's money? And why do they keep finding themselves in bed together?Also featuring evil trustees, gratuitous jokes about accountancy and a small dog named Colin.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 213
Kudos: 178





	1. It Isn't Romantic

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this a fic about two accountants. What can I tell you? Seems like Crowley and Aziraphale can turn their hands to anything. 
> 
> This fic is complete, because I was far too scared to send it out into the world until I knew where it was going. I will post one chapter every three days.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet our besotted protagonists in a pub.

**Friday**

It isn’t romantic.

The lights are dim and they sit opposite one another, close to the bar, at a table for two. A tired candle flickers between them. But the background chatter is intrusive, and on the other side of the bar Crowley can hear this evening’s band tuning up. Soon it will be impossible to hear each other without shouting. Soon, they will say their goodbyes and go their separate ways for the weekend. Soon, if Crowley is really unlucky, he will sit and watch and project a fierce air of _I don’t care_ as Aziraphale’s latest identikit “friend” shows up and takes him away.

The first time this happened, Crowley naively thought that it really was a friend. And he was still jealous, because he is pathetic and empty, and he wants every last piece of Aziraphale, wants to gather them all into his arms and use them to fill the void inside himself, to make himself feel whole. And he has learnt to ration the scraps. He has learnt to drink in what he can through the relationship that they do have, which is strictly professional, as friendly colleagues. So he can go with Aziraphale to the _Garden of Eden_ every Friday night after they leave the office, and he can buy him a drink and moan about their other colleagues and talk about their plans for the weekend. But he cannot ever become a part of those plans. He cannot arrange to go with him to the theatre, or to the British Museum, or the National Gallery. He cannot order a takeaway and slouch on Aziraphale’s sofa on a lazy Saturday night, watching Netflix. He cannot do any of the other things that he used to imagine that Aziraphale would do with the friends who occasionally met him at the pub on a Friday night – and he _absolutely_ cannot do what he now knows they _do_ do. It had been Gabriel, of all people, who had let it slip. _He picks those men up on_ Grindr ** _,_ **their boss had said, his voice dripping with distaste. And Crowley had not believed it, could not bear to believe it, but as time went by and he never saw the same friend twice, he had eventually screwed up his courage and asked him outright, as casual as possible.

“So, how did you and David meet? How long have you two known each other?”

And Aziraphale had flushed a bright red and blurted the truth out straight away, as if it were any of Crowley’s business, or something to be ashamed of; as if Crowley had any right to know or disapprove of the way Aziraphale filled his time. Anyway, he didn’t disapprove. He couldn’t very well, when his own life had been so similar. He didn’t, _couldn’t_ disapprove of casual hook-ups, as long as everyone was safe and consenting. But he could, and did, disapprove of anyone, anyone at all, touching his angel. The fact that he had no right to disapprove, and could never do anything to let Aziraphale know that he did, was neither here nor there.

Crowley was certainly no stranger to casual sex. He had sworn off relationships a long, long time ago, and for many years the he had filled the aching void inside him by seeking out just as much love and commitment as he could fit between dusk and dawn. He knew who _that_ Crowley was; it was a comfortable persona which had once fit him like a glove. Until this blonde-haired, hazel-eyed angel had been catapulted into his life, and then somehow, it didn’t work anymore. Casual hook-ups began to feel dirty, distasteful; not worthy of the man he wanted to be for the man he loved. And so he had become effectively celibate, nearly six years ago: committing himself body and soul to a man who certainly had never thought of him in that way, and never would.

“And then he started making _jokes_. I wanted to sink through the floor!”

Crowley drags his mind back to the present, trying to grasp the threads of Aziraphale’s conversation before the other man realises he hasn’t been listening.

“Gabriel?”

“Yes, of course Gabriel. ‘There are three types of accountants’, he said, ‘those who can count –'”

“And those who can’t?”

“Well, yes, but as if that wasn’t excruciating enough as it was, my dear, Sandy _didn’t get it_. ‘Oh, Gabriel,’ he said, raising his hand – he actually _raised his hand_ – ‘You forgot to tell us about the third type of accountant. That was only two.’ And then he actually sat there looking proud, as if he had contributed.”

Crowley winces. “How did the guys from Youngs react?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t look at them!” Aziraphale leans over confidingly and touches Crowley’s arm. “Oh, my dear fellow, it was a _complete nightmare_.”

Crowley wants to kiss him, quickly, now, over the worn and stained table and the shredded beer mats; wants to whisk him away from the disaster which is their professional life, and the noisy bustle of the _Eden,_ and the Grindr ‘friend’ who is surely now not far off. He wants, at the very least, to reciprocate the myriad affectionate gestures which form a part of Aziraphale’s normal conversation: the arm touches, the ‘my dear’s and the shy little smiles. But he never does. Crowley knows that they do not mean what he so much wants them to mean, and that they never will, and he will not put either of them through the embarrassment of Aziraphale rebuffing his unwanted advances.

And yet maybe that would have been kinder. Aziraphale has no idea of what he does to Crowley, unwittingly, every time they speak; how over the course of the last six years Crowley’s shrivelled, blackened husk of a heart has begun to beat and to feel again, and how it now feels every weekend separation as a dull ache, and every one of Aziraphale’s casual relationships as a stab wound. Wouldn’t it be better to rip off the plaster all at once? To lay his cards out on the table: _I am in love with you. I have loved you for six years and I cannot imagine any time or any universe in which I am not in love with you._ And Aziraphale will hear him out, with kindness in his eyes and a little wince at the hurt he is about to cause, and he will apologise for the feelings he doesn’t have, and the love he doesn’t share.

And after that? Perhaps they will be able to build something new; a professional relationship based on mutual _professional_ respect. Perhaps one of them will leave the company, and they will drift apart. Perhaps they can still be friends, despite the looming elephant of Crowley’s feelings; perhaps they can thread conversation through its legs and over its back, careful all the while never to notice its presence.

Could Crowley bear to live like that? Could he possibly risk the loss of the easy companionship and trust they have now? Worst of all, could he bear to risk the loss of the _hope_ that still sustains him? For Crowley is, at heart, an optimist, and inconceivable as it is that Aziraphale could ever reciprocate his feelings, for as long as he does not drive him away, there is always a chance.

And so Crowley lingers, and gathers the scraps, and stays at the table when he knows he should go because that way, he gets to spend a few precious extra minutes with the man he loves unrequitedly. It is ironic, and he knows it: he has worked so hard to avoid the possibility of emotional attachment to another soul, and then his stupid, battered heart has gone and formed one anyway, without his permission, against his will.

He has drifted again, wasting the last few moments of his time with Aziraphale. Now the other man’s phone is ringing, and he answers, waves, and his eyes meet those of another who has just entered the pub, shaking the rain from his shoulders. The newcomer is slim, with red hair, which seems to be Aziraphale’s _type_ , and isn’t that just a kick in the guts?

The man arrives at their table just as Aziraphale rises to his feet, red-faced, hurriedly gathering his scattered belongings. He never likes Crowley to meet his Grindr fuckbuddies.

“Ah, you must be Tom?”

The man nods.

“I’m terribly sorry, I meant to be ready. I was just a bit distracted, telling Crowley about – oh, I’m so sorry, this is Crowley, my…” Aziraphale, inexplicably, trails off, leaving both Crowley and Tom to fill in the blanks for themselves.

“Friend”, supplies Crowley, just as Aziraphale jolts back to life and shouts, “Colleague!”

Tom gazes between them, looking faintly amused. Aziraphale has turned a bright shade of red now, and if Crowley didn’t know for a solid, cast iron fact that there is nothing between them, he would have confidently put money on Aziraphale’s predominant emotion at this point being _guilt_.

“Oh, we’re not friends. Hardly even know each other. See you on Monday, Crowley!” Aziraphale calls over his shoulder as he departs with Tom, and the last strung-out remnant of Crowley’s dignity departs with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it this far! This fic is the first thing I've ever written and if even one person likes it, that really would make my day.


	2. The Most Beautiful Man in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we travel back six years, and see our two heroes meet for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who leave comments and kudos on fics are absolute angels (or demons, if that's your preference). I haven't stopped smiling in three days. Thank you so much!

**Six years ago**

Anthony J Crowley blinks, shakes his head as if to clear it, and then looks around the conference room again. The vision before him doesn't change.

He feels a little light-headed, as if he's stood up too quickly. He didn’t stop for lunch today; come to think of it, he has had nothing but coffee all day, and he's running on very little sleep. (He refuses to believe his problems sleeping could be related to his coffee consumption. He _needs_ his coffee.) Until five minutes ago he had been locked in a protracted and bloody battle with the fixed asset register, trying to understand whatever dark magic that idiot Hastur had woven into it. Finally half an hour or so back he had had a bit of a breakthrough with the depreciation calculations. He had known he had to complete them before he left for the day, because his sudden epiphany wouldn't stay with him over the weekend. So when Hastur had come to remind him of the merger meeting with Heaven, he had snarled some particularly demonic curses as he followed him to the conference room.

The whole thing is stupid anyway, he had thought on the way over. On every level. They don't want to merge. They don't need to merge. And if they had wanted to or needed to, surely they could have found someone better than this. It’s ridiculous.

Sometimes Crowley privately suspects that the merger is taking place simply because all the name coincidences have tickled someone on the Board of Trustees. The chairman of trustees for Heaven has long been referred to only as God, which is bad enough, but it goes so much bloody further...

Crowley is the Finance Manager for HELP, a small UK-based charity set up to safeguard the natural habitats of mountain gorillas in Borneo. It isn't his dream job, exactly, but it’s comfortable and it’s his and it pays the bills. Now, the Powers That Be have decreed that HELP is too small to function efficiently alone, and should merge with Heaven for Everyone, a similar-sized organisation with a focus on saving the rainforests. Crowley doesn't care that their aims are similar, or that they could achieve economies of scale by working together. He has no interest in joining forces with a charity named after a Queen song. And worse, their boss is called Gabriel. An angel in charge of Heaven, merging with an organisation whose name sounds passably like Hell, led by Lucy Ferris – Lucifer? It’s a farce, or possibly a very bad sitcom.

God herself is a piece of work. She’s apparently been a trustee ever since the beginning, which Crowley thinks is not very good practice. No-one seems quite sure of her real name (apart from Crowley. He doesn’t have much patience for that sort of thing, and therefore looked her up on the Charity Commission website as soon as he heard about the proposed merger. Her name is Fran McDonald. No wonder she prefers God). The only things that people agree on are that she is addicted to Cuban cigars, owns a small dog named Colin, and overuses the phrase ‘in a manner of speaking’.

But anyway, megalomaniac trustees or no, it is done. The deed is signed and the merger date fast approaches, and now it is down to Crowley and his colleagues to work out how to actually make it happen. Hence this meeting, at 4.30 on a Friday afternoon, with the finance team from Heaven. Hence Crowley's sudden inability to trust the evidence of his own eyes.

A second look changes nothing. There on the other side of the room, fussing with a tea bag and a carafe of once-boiling water, stands the most beautiful man Crowley has ever seen.

HELP's dress code is casual, and Crowley wears skintight black jeans and a dark henley. Hastur and Ligur are rumoured to possess a suit each, for funerals and court appearances, but no-one could argue that they actually make the pair of them look any less as if they had just erupted upwards through a forest floor. But this man… this man wears beige trousers and a _waistcoat_ over a pale blue shirt with a _bow tie_. His expression seems alive with intelligence, the curve of his pink lips seems to speak of kindness, and yet something in his steely hazel eyes also suggests that he is no pushover. Currently, however, he is fiddling with the hot water jug and muttering nervously under his breath.

 _Let me_ , Crowley wants to say, but he finds that he can't. The man has fluffy blond hair which sticks up adorably from his head, and the _shape_ of him as he leans across the table…

“Uh,” snorts Ligur from beside him. “It works better if you take the lid off.” He shoots Crowley a conspiratorial glance which is clearly supposed to say _what an idiot_ , and the shock of finding himself teamed with that demon and _against_ the angel opposite is enough to kickstart Crowley’s brain again. He stumbles his way into the nearest chair and sprawls as nonchalantly as he can manage, to cover the racing of his heart and the pounding of blood at his temples.

“Oh yes! Silly me,” the vision of loveliness replies with a little laugh. “Not good with these things. I always make tea with a teapot, you see…” He sinks into the chair directly opposite Crowley and shuffles his papers with the world's most beautiful, sensitive fingers, and Crowley tries and fails to force himself to focus on the matter at, um, hand.

“Right,” says Hastur, after an uncomfortable few seconds have passed. “Are we doing introductions, boss?”

“Yrk,” agrees Crowley eloquently.

A few more seconds pass.

“Right,” says Hastur for a second time. “I'll start then, shall I?”

In this way Crowley discovers that the Vision is called Aziraphale Fell, and that he is Crowley's direct counterpart at Heaven. He has worked there for twenty-five years, ever since he qualified as an accountant. Crowley thinks that he must be of a similar age to Crowley himself, maybe mid to late forties. Any further thought processes shut down at that point, because Aziraphale removes his cuff links and begins to roll up his shirt sleeves, exposing strong forearms dusted with a smattering of silvery hair.

Oh dear.

* * *

Crowley has no idea why he is acting like a lovestruck teenager in the presence of a celebrity crush. He is old enough and has lived and loved enough to know better. This… this fawning over someone he doesn't even know, this complete inability to function… it isn't him.

Crowley doesn't _do_ serious relationships anymore. Doesn't do relationships at all, to be honest. Been there, done that, got _that_ bloody t-shirt, thank you very much. If you let people in, in the end they would hurt you. If you let them see you as anything other than impenetrably perfect, then one day they would take your insecurities and your flaws and your hopes and your wishes and your dreams and they would fucking lay them out like wares on a fucking market stall, for you and everyone else to see. _Look, here's Crowley. He may look good on the outside but inside he is just a jumble of anxiety and self-hatred. Roll up, roll up, come and see._

So he lives alone and he loves no-one, and when he needs to scratch that particular itch he goes out to pubs and clubs in his tightest trousers and he goes home with anyone who will have him. He has never struggled to find people who want to get inside his trousers. Some of them want to stick around afterwards; think they could be the one to finally tie him down. Now, Crowley is all in favour of being tied down in specific circumstances, but the idea of one of these casual shags having his number, knowing where he lives, being able to find him again… it makes him shudder.

While he is with them they are the most important man or woman in the world to him, and he gives himself to them wholeheartedly. He likes to think that he is a generous, attentive lover, and he's never had any complaints in that department. But as that post-orgasmic haze starts to die down, in its place begins to well up a sort of claustrophobia. Their limbs start to feel heavy where they lay across him. The bedding begins to feel stifling. The ticking of a bedroom clock grows louder and louder until it fills his ears and drives him to run, run, run; to distance himself from this messy, human situation and regain the cool, ordered calm of his own space. Crowley _never_ brings a casual shag back to his place. He never brings _anyone_ back to his place.

So this… _thing_ , this… well, whatever it is, with Aziraphale Fell… it cannot be allowed to progress. It has to be nipped in the bed – uh – in the _bud_ , right now. Because yes, the man is gorgeous and yes, Crowley wants to run his hands through that fluffy blond hair, down that broad chest and, um, _further_ down. Yes, he wants to hear what that rather prim voice sounds like in the throes of ecstasy. Yes, ok, he'll admit that he wants to give himself over entirely to that cream-and-blue-coloured angel. But the next day? Once the sweat has cooled and the bed has been remade and the front door has clicked shut, here they will both still be. Aziraphale would be able to pick up the phone and call through to him at his desk. He could go to HR and find some plausible excuse to be given his home address. Crowley's job will no longer be a safe place, belonging only to him.

This is just lust. It has to be; he hasn’t known the man long enough for it to be anything else, for Heaven’s – uh, for _goodness_ sake. And it’s Friday night, and Crowley knows how to deal with lust.

* * *

Monday morning rolls round, and Crowley feels excellent.

Wrong side of forty, but he still has it. He hasn’t slept at his own flat since Thursday night, having spent Friday night with Paul, Saturday with Ajay and Sunday with Mel. He had returned home in the early hours to scrub his transgressions away under a scalding shower and now he feels _fucking great_ , shut up, he _does_ …

He has an email from Aziraphale.

 _To: Anthony Crowley_ _[a.crowley@help.org.uk](mailto:a.crowley@help.org.uk)_

 _From: Aziraphale Fell_ [ _aziraphale.fell@heavenforeveryone.org_](mailto:aziraphale.fell@heavenforeveryone.org)

_Subject: Payroll transfer_

_Dear Mr. Crowley,_

_I do hope this message finds you well. It was lovely to meet you on Friday and I hope your weekend was restful._

_As agreed at that meeting, I am contacting you to arrange a separate discussion between ourselves with regards to the intricacies of combining our two payrolls. Might you have any availability tomorrow afternoon?_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Aziraphale Fell_

Fuck.

Just a handful of words, but he can hear them exactly as if they were coming from those pink lips; can see in his mind's eye the shapes made by those neat, precise features as the angel articulates. If this is just lust, how can it not be sated by the weekend he’s just put himself through?

 _This is ridiculous,_ he tells himself. _You are ridiculous. I don't know why I'm still talking to you._

_To: Aziraphale Fell_ [ _aziraphale.fell@heavenforeveryone.org_ ](mailto:aziraphale.fell@heavenforeveryone.org)

_From: Anthony Crowley_ [ _a.crowley@help.org.uk_ ](mailto:a.crowley@help.org.uk)

_Subject: Payroll transfer_

_2pm?_

_C_

_To: Anthony Crowley_ [ _a.crowley@help.org.uk_ ](mailto:a.crowley@help.org.uk)

_From: Aziraphale Fell_ [ _aziraphale.fell@heavenforeveryone.org_ ](mailto:aziraphale.fell@heavenforeveryone.org)

_Subject: Payroll transfer_

_Dear Anthony,_

_Thank you for your email. It was lovely to hear from you._

_2pm will be splendid! I shall book us a room._

_Until then, yours sincerely_

_Aziraphale Fell_

Fuuuuuuuuuck. Crowley is in trouble.

* * *

It should be easier, Crowley thinks, when he has something specific and technical on which to focus. Combining the payrolls of Heaven and HELP, and ensuring that no-one is missed out or wrongly paid, is a complicated process. There are spreadsheets to be constructed, facts to be checked, missing data to be collected, formats to align. This he can do.

But so can Aziraphale, and that makes it worse. Crowley’s initial infatuation had been with the way the man looked: his bright, lively eyes and pink lips, the soft white halo of fluffy hair on his head, the gentle curve of his thighs. Now he is discovering that his soon-to-be colleague also has a sharp mind. He catches on to Crowley’s points quickly, thinks logically, and balances complicated concepts deftly and surely. The more time Crowley spends with him, the more he likes him.

* * *

“The thing is, though,” opines Aziraphale confidingly one Friday night a few weeks later, after the rest of their colleagues have departed to start their weekends, “I’m not sure this merger business is really quite the thing, dear boy.”

“Ngk,” replies Crowley, non-committally. His own feelings on the matter are perforce somewhat fluid. If the merger goes away, so does Aziraphale, and the thought of conducting his own personal “merger” with Aziraphale occupies most of his waking moments and not a few of his sleeping ones. Of course, if it were to be called off he never has to see the other man again, and therefore there would be nothing standing between him and the possibility of a truly spectacular one night stand followed by a swift exit into the sunset, free from messy consequences. For reasons which he chooses not to examine too closely just at the moment, this isn't currently featuring highly on Crowley's wish list. 

“And um… Crowley?”

“Mmm?”

“What do you think will happen to us?”

Crowley straightens guiltily, as if Aziraphale can read his thoughts. “Us?”

“Well, yes. You and I. Once our two charities have merged, do you think they will still need both of us?”

Crowley gapes at him, wordlessly. Somehow he has not even considered the possibility that all their hard work might be helping to make one of them unemployed. He opens his mouth but can only string together nonsense syllables.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale frets, wringing his hands. “I do hope this isn’t going to be _unpleasant_. I don’t know what I shall do without this job. It’s all I’ve ever known. I suppose they may retain both of us, but one of us may need to be demoted, and work for the other…”

Crowley grabs himself by the scruff of his metaphorical neck and shakes hard. He has known Aziraphale for a fortnight but already he knows that he won’t allow anything bad to happen to his angel. Not if it’s within his power to stop it.

“Hey, hey, Aziraphale, stop. Don’t get carried away. There’s going to be a lot of work to do – I reckon they’ll need us both. And I,” deep breath, “I’ve been thinking about taking a step down anyway. If they want to appoint one person to lead the combined finance team, I… I won’t apply for it.”

“You… why on Earth not, dear boy?” Aziraphale looks shocked. “You’re the obvious choice!”

 _Because I’d rather sell my soul to Satan than see you upset._ “Oh, I just think you’d be a better fit, you know?” Crowley needs to change the subject, and fast. “Speaking of jobs, did you hear about the new executive salary structure your boss is proposing for senior management?”

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale’s eyes widen into saucers. “I suppose he has to afford those tailored suits somehow. I have heard a rumour,” and here he lowers his voice dramatically, “that he will challenge for the CEO role…”

Another half hour drifts past in this fashion before Crowley drops his pen and looks at his watch. “C’mon angel, it’s getting late. Too late to be here, on a Friday night. We can meet again next week to finish this off. Time for a quick one at the Eden?”

Aziraphale blushes bright red from his bow tie to his hairline. “A quick…?”

“Drink! A quick drink! Not… anything else.” Crowley is still adjusting to the way Aziraphale is impervious to slang. Now he's embarrassed, but at least it distracts from his other faux pas. Aziraphale doesn’t appear to have noticed that he slipped up and called him angel out loud.

“Oh, of course, of course!” Is Aziraphale relieved? He seems more embarrassed than anything else. “What an idea… as if you and I would ever…”

 _Alright, don’t rub it in._ Crowley leans over his desk and starts packing his bag, still internally kicking himself, ready to slouch off home to mope in private.

“But actually, yes, a drink would be nice. I haven’t been to the Eden for years. And it _is_ Friday… yes, I will come with you. I would be delighted.”

Well. This is a Thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably admit that I know a little less than nothing about rainforests, gorillas or Borneo, so my apologies for anything in this fic which is absurd, impossible or ridiculous.
> 
> Next update on Saturday!


	3. Sort Of Seeing Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we return to the present day, and Crowley receives some disturbing news about Aziraphale. Oh, and they find out that they could all be about to lose their jobs, but. You know. Priorities.

**Monday**

When Crowley arrives at the office on Monday morning, late and harried, he notices the distinctively individual hairstyles of Adam Young and Warlock Dowling, of the Young Trust, waiting together in Lucy’s office as he flies past. Adam catches his eye, raises a hand in greeting, and Crowley forces himself to stop, return, and stick his head around the door.

“Morning both. We must stop meeting like this.”

Adam is still staring at Crowley. It’s a little off-putting. “Yes… we have been around rather a lot lately, haven’t we? How are things, Mr. Crowley?”

“Oh, you know. Busy busy.”

“Indeed.” This is Warlock. “Tell me Crowley, do you like your job?”

What sort of question was that to be asked by representatives of a rival charity, especially while he stands in the doorway of his boss’s office? “Of course I do. I’m very committed to those rainforests, you know me.”

“Hmm. Well, don’t let us keep you.”

 _What on Earth was that all about?_ Crowley doesn’t have long to ponder it, because as he swings through the door of the finance office and into his desk chair Hastur’s voice immediately accosts him.

“Good afternoon!”

“Alright, alright! It’s only ten past nine, you foul fiend!” Crowley drags a hand through his unruly red hair. “Coffee machine broke, so I’m not functioning yet.”

“ _Someone_ had a rough weekend,” smirks Hastur.

“I just explained –”

“For once I didn’t mean you, you old serpent. Look at Romeo over here.” Hastur gestures to where Aziraphale sits primly in front of his monitor. 

“Aziraphale? What – ”

“Hastur, just _leave it_ , please!” Aziraphale huffs, resolutely refusing to look away from his screen.

“Angel, did something happen?” Crowley is worried, and the endearment slips out before he can stop it.

“ANGEL!” Hastur crows. “You’re under Loverboy’s spell too!”

“Would somebody please tell me what the _hell_ is going on?” Crowley is still confused, and now he’s embarrassed as well. He’s always thought of Aziraphale as an angel – it’s something about the way his fluffy blond hair glows like a halo around his head – but he’s become quite adept at keeping it hidden, at least around the office.

“Your _angel_ had a date on Friday night with my cousin Tom,” Hastur recounts with glee, “and he made _quite_ the impression! Tom called me on Sunday – once he’d _got his breath back,_ I gather _–_ because he’d realized Azi and I must work together and he wanted me to tell him everything I could about his new _boyfriend_. So I told him, the only thing I know about this waistcoated lothario is that he goes home with a different man every week –”

“Hastur!” The interjection is Crowley’s. Aziraphale is silent, the tips of his ears flushed pink.

“He didn’t want to believe me, of course. But then Loverboy gets out of the shower and they have THAT TALK, don’t they? Turns out Tom’s jumped the gun a bit with the whole boyfriend thing. Turns out the angel’s not singing from the same hymn sheet, hmm? _It’s complicated_ , he says to Tom _, but I’m sort of seeing someone –”_

“HASTUR!” This time the interjection comes from three sides all at once: Aziraphale, mortified and desperate for Hastur not to complete that sentence; Crowley, stunned out of all rational thought; and Bee, newly arrived in the doorway and oblivious to everything but the news they have to impart.

“Do none of you idiots check your emails? Gabe and Lucy have called an all staff meeting in the conference room. Something important. Everyone’s waiting for you! Stop yapping and get down there!”

* * *

_Sort of seeing someone._

What does that even mean? Surely you either were seeing someone, or you weren’t. How could that sentence have ended? _Sort of seeing someone_ , but it’s an open relationship? _Sort of seeing someone_ , but I’m going to end it? _Sort of seeing someone_ , but they’re married?

Who the fuck is Aziraphale seeing? In the last six years, he’s never known Aziraphale to see anyone except casually.

 _None of your business,_ Crowley reminds himself.

Another of his Grindr “friends”? Maybe one of them was getting more serious? But then why see Tom at all?

_None of your business!_

Or maybe –

“Ok, thank you all for coming guys. You know, I always think it’s very illuminating, in a manner of speaking, to hold All Staff Briefings first thing on a Monday morning. Really lets you know who’s on the ball and who’s… not, you know what I mean?” Gabriel smirks up towards Crowley and the rest of the finance team, lurking in the back corner. Crowley looks away to avoid meeting Gabriel’s eyes, and instead sees Lucy Ferris, just beside him at the front of the room. Her dark eyes flash at Gabriel with… is that… _anger_?

“Thank you Gabriel,” Lucy cuts in smoothly. “And thank you all for coming at such short notice. I had hoped the meeting invite had gone out on Friday, but apparently there was an… oversight.” Quick glance at Gabriel again. Oho. “We’ve called you all here because there are some very serious conversations taking place at the moment, and we feel it’s important that you know what’s going on.”

Now she has everybody’s attention.

“You all know that things have been a little… tricky, just lately.”

A murmur of agreement runs quickly round the room. Everyone knows about the scandal that saw the Chairman of the Board of Trustees, the Goliath known around Heaven’s offices only as God, forced to resign in shame amidst newspaper headlines and Twitter speculation. Everyone knows about the Winter Fundraiser on the South Bank, normally their biggest income generator of the year. Crowley winces involuntarily as he remembers standing in full gorilla costume beside the almost empty donation counter, being heckled by passers-by about an embezzlement in which he had played no part. Donations had all but dried up since then, and who could have expected anything different? But they still had their reserves to fall back on…

As if he had spoken aloud, Lucy continued, “A charity can’t afford to live on its reserves for too long. It’s not sustainable. And some of the Board are concerned that the reputational damage Heaven has suffered is just too great for us to be able to regain the public’s trust.”

This did not sound good at all.

“I have to tell you that very serious discussions are taking place this week to decide on the charity’s future. There are three options. The first is that we continue as we are and try to rebuild, rebrand perhaps, and hope the public perception of us will improve. The second is that we call it a day, wind up altogether. And the middle option, the compromise, is that we enter into talks with another charity. We have good assets, good infrastructure… someone like the WWF might be keen to take over what we have and absorb us into their own operations.”

“ANOTHER merger!? No!” It is Hastur who speaks, but Crowley can feel the murmur of agreement run around the room. “We’ve barely recovered from the last one!”

Lucy eyes him coolly. “Just so. However, Mr. La Vista, you must understand that the problem we face is a serious one.” She turns back to face the assembled group. “I have to warn you that all three of these options will herald some major changes around here – even the first one. As of today, you are all officially at risk of redundancy. There will be a letter sent round later today, letting you know what that means for you and what the next steps are.”

Lucy continues speaking, but Crowley isn’t listening anymore. All he can think of is the angel sitting just to his right – the angel who is now _sort of seeing someone_ , the angel whom Crowley himself only ever sees at work. What sort of future can they possibly have, if they don’t both work here?

Of course, Crowley knows it has always been a theoretical possibility that Aziraphale will leave Heaven. He could hand in his notice at any point, and then he would be out of Crowley’s life within three months. But he has been here for 25 years, through all sorts of ups and downs – why would he leave now?

Well, because of something like this.

Crowley feels faintly sick. Words drift past his head, and he catches maybe one in twenty: _options_ … _explore… fact-finding mission… consultants… Charity Commission… takeover… redundancies… vote_.

He sits up, nudges Aziraphale with his elbow. (This much touch he will allow himself, on special occasions, and this occasion is so special that he feels about to split open along the seams.) “What was that about a vote?”

“Next week,” Aziraphale whispers back. “The Board of Trustees will receive presentations next Tuesday outlining each option, they have Wednesday to think about it, and then on Thursday they vote. By Thursday evening, we will know what will become of us.”

“So we’ve only got eleven days, and then it’s all over.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale shifts in his seat. “Welcome to the end times.”

* * *

As they file out of the conference room, Crowley’s eyes are drawn to two figures waiting in the back row, unmoving. Adam Young and Warlock Dowling, directors of the Young Trust. What are they doing here? They’re not staff, and that briefing certainly felt confidential. He scans the room for Lucy, wondering whether she had known they were there, and catches her communicating with Adam Young with a flick of her head and a flash of her dark eyes. Unruffled, Adam remains seated, and as Crowley leaves the room he can just see her approaching the two men with a frown. Straining to hear over the babble of voices, he thinks he can just make out the words _not ready yet_. Adam’s voice in response is a low rumble, impossible to discern.

What is that about?

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. Scarcely has he logged back into his PC when Bee is back again, summoning him.

“Would Sir kindly step this way? The pleasure of Sir’s company has been requested in Lucifer’s office.”

Crowley flicks two fingers at his colleague, but he goes anyway. If Lucy Ferris wants you, you do not keep her waiting.

Except… Lucy Ferris _doesn’t_ want him. Waiting in her office are Adam and Warlock, alone and unsupervised. What the hell is going on?

“Ah, Crowley, do sit down.”

Crowley remains standing. “I didn’t know you had an office here these days.”

Adam Young pins Crowley with his trademark, disconcertingly direct gaze. “Can you tell which way the wind is blowing, Crowley?”

Crowley tries and fails to think of a clever response, mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish. Does Lucy even know they are in here?

Warlock cuts in, seemingly trying a different tack. “You know, we’ve always rated your work, Crowley.”

“You have?”

“Yes. A man like you could have a very… profitable career ahead of him.”

Lucy’s words echo in his head: _at risk of redundancy._ He knows, and he knows they know. Is this…

“What is this?”

“This is a job offer, Crowley.”

“You want…”

“You, yes. We want you to work for us. Youngs would benefit greatly from your skills and expertise, and you would benefit greatly from _not being made redundant_. It’s what they call a win-win.”

“Does Lucy know you’re talking to me?”

For the first time, Adam looks uncomfortable. “Lucy _does_ know which way the wind is blowing.”

“Anyway,” Warlock breaks in again, “you don’t need to let us know straight away, of course. Have a think about what you need, what your expectations are…”

“My… expectations?”

“Salary, pension, holiday, that sort of thing. You will find we are not unreasonable people, Crowley. So as I say, have a think and let us know –”

But suddenly Crowley does know. Suddenly Crowley can see a way forward.

“Aziraphale!”

“Bless you.” Adam is unmoved.

“No, I mean… that’s my expectation. We’re a team now. We work together. If you want me, find a job for him too.”

The two men exchange glances, but it is Warlock who speaks. “You mean… Mr Fell?”

“That’s right.”

“We will consider your proposal, Mr Crowley. Now, we know you are a very busy man. We will not keep you from your accounts any longer. We will be in touch.”

Crowley takes his leave, resisting an absurd urge to bow. Nothing makes sense anymore; the world has gone mad. He imagines taking Aziraphale with him, leaving Heaven to sink under the weight of its self-made problems. Imagines the two of them starting over. Imagines a new local for Friday evening pints with new colleagues.

Imagines the _someone_ Aziraphale is _sort of seeing._

It doesn’t matter. He knows that he and Aziraphale can never be what he so wants them to be; he’s known for a long time now. He will give his angel all he has, and in return he will take whatever scraps he can gather; will eke out a living on cast off words and absent glances and that sense of conspiratorial understanding which blossoms between them whenever their employer does something to remind them that _they are on their own side_. It’s not much but it’s everything, and he will fight tooth and claw to hang on to it. He has to find a way to take Aziraphale with him to the Young Trust. He _has_ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up on Tuesday!


	4. Mr Slick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we revisit that first meeting six years ago, but from Aziraphale's point of view. Is this merger business really a good idea? Who is the mysterious man in black? And how on Earth do you work these infernal hot water dispensers?

**Six years ago**

Aziraphale Fell has been a part of Heaven for his whole career. If you can call it a career. He isn’t too sure what he would be without it. Can’t really remember what he was before it. It’s all he knows, and it defines who he is. What will he do, what will he _be_ , if all of that is taken away?

He tuts under his breath, and inwardly berates himself for being so melodramatic. He has to stop thinking this way. _Heaven for Everyone_ is just a job, he is just an accountant, and the charity he works for is just merging with another one. That’s all. Happens all the time. Yes, they call the other guys HELL, but that’s just a joke, just wordplay. Why, inside he’s sure his counterparts at HELP must be just as worried about this merger as he is. They are all in the same boat.

Their discomfort and worry must explain why they all seem so unfriendly.

When the contingent from Heaven had arrived for this meeting, they had been greeted at the door by a bored receptionist who smelt faintly of fish and who stared at them, glassy-eyed and unsmiling, for just a little too long. She had then summoned a short, squat figure wearing a ragged trenchcoat, of all things, who had led them into this conference room in a slow trudge, made himself a plastic cup of evil-smelling thick black sludge which was presumably supposed to resemble coffee, and then sat down to stare at each of them in turn, with the studied gaze of a vivisectionist deciding which bit to lop off first. Neither of them had introduced themselves, but the receptionist’s name badge had proclaimed her to be Dagon, and as for the short, squat one –

“Oi, Ligur, where are you, you prick?” The shout comes from the corridor outside.

Trenchcoat guffaws and yells back through the closed door, “I’m in ‘ere with the fuckin’ angels from Heaven, Hastur, you arse!”

Beside him, Aziraphale can _feel_ Gabriel wince.

“Righto. I’ll go and fetch Mr. Slick.”

_Good Lord._

Purely to cover his discomfort and stop himself from wringing his hands and fiddling nervously with the hem of his waistcoat, Aziraphale rises and walks over to the tea and coffee area. He immediately regrets it. He has never, _never_ been any good at operating these things. He knows exactly how to make tea, thank you very much, with loose leaves and a teapot and freshly boiled water. There is a certain ceremony to it which helps to ground him, to centre him in himself. But this, with little packeted teabags and this infernal, _inpenetrable_ hot water device…

He hardly registers the sound of the door opening behind him, focused as he is on the job at hand. If there’s one thing more embarrassing than having his current and future colleagues watch him struggle to make a simple cup of tea, it’s having them watch him struggle and then _fail_ to make said tea…

Trenchcoat – Ligur, rather – is laughing at him. “It works better if you take the lid off.”

Aziraphale mutters something back, mortified; some nonsense about teapots, he hardly knows. Finally, _finally_ the wretched thing opens and he splashes some lukewarm water into his plastic cup and turns back to the table, cheeks aflame. Oh, good _Lord_ , he has forgotten the teabag. All that effort and he has made himself a cup of warm water. He cannot, he _cannot_ go back up there again…

Cupping a hand protectively around his stupid drink, Aziraphale finally lifts his eyes for the first time and takes in the newcomers to the room. Next to Ligur sits another man who, in dress sense at least, is almost his carbon copy: dirty trenchcoat, baggy trousers, general air of being dragged through a hedge backwards. Aziraphale suspects that this is the man who shouted. Hastur, wasn’t it? Which means that the other man must be Mr. Slick…

Oh.

Mr. Slick lounges across a chair as if no-one has ever shown him how to use one. He is dressed all in black – stylish, slim fit, figure-hugging black, and _goodness_ what a figure he has. He appears to be made entirely of leg; long, black-clad legs which start somewhere just under his chin and run all the way down to his snakeskin boots. He wears a sort of a… what is it? Sort of a cross between a tie and a scarf around his neck, and its presence draws Aziraphale’s attention to how shapely his chest is, and highlights the wisp of chest hair visible in the V of his top. His nose and mouth are surprisingly delicate; his eyes are for some reason concealed behind sunglasses. The whole vision – for he is a vision – is topped off by flame-red hair, some of which is pulled back into a messy bun, but the rest of which hangs around his pretty face in gentle waves.

He is quite simply the most beautiful man Aziraphale has ever seen.

Aziraphale's mother had made clear, although never in words, that she had expected him never to form any romantic or sexual attachment, or indeed any attachment at all save to her. Accordingly, and obediently, for the first 25 years of his life he had carefully quashed every urge, keen to suppress anything that did not fit into her idea of what he should be. Even after he left home it had been a while before he felt brave enough to begin to make up his own rules. He had believed that _normally_ men liked women and so he had supposed that he should too, although he never seemed to meet any who interested him in _that_ way.

And then there had been Deirdre, from the library, and my word, hadn’t _that_ been an education? Aziraphale had wondered whether maybe he was in love with Deirdre. (She had told him that he was.) She was comfortable, and warm, and funny, and just the teeniest little bit scary, and they had seen each other for dinners and drinking and occasional sex for the best part of three years. Things had felt settled, if not particularly exciting, and Aziraphale had thought that that was probably that. And then Deirdre had taken up with Harriet, who had forgotten her library card and needed help finding the Jeffrey Archer books and somehow always seemed to be there, between the stacks and, as it turned out, between the sheets. Aziraphale had been quite surprised to learn that he and Deirdre had not been exclusive, but he supposed it was his fault; he should have asked her about that right from the start.

Anyway, when they had finally parted ways Deirdre had told him that he was probably gay. (He wasn’t sure how she knew, but he felt she was probably correct; it was exactly the sort of thing she _would_ know.) He had let the knowledge settle around him for a while; waited as it percolated through his self-image and established itself as part of the fabric of Aziraphale Fell. It didn’t change his behaviour, but occasionally he would catch sight of a particularly good looking man in the street or on TV and think to himself, _oh yes, still gay_. (Most of these men seemed to be tall, slim and red-headed, and Aziraphale felt absurdly proud to realise that he had a _type_.)

So, all of a sudden, here he is: flustered, blushing and inadequately beveraged, and sitting down directly opposite the most beautiful man in the world, who looks bored stiff and thoroughly disinterested in everything to do with Aziraphale Fell.

In fact, he doesn’t seem to be interested in _anything_ that’s going on. The man can scarcely even summon up the enthusiasm to introduce himself, and in the end Hastur does it for him. “This is Crowley, innit? Wanker’s in charge of the finance team.”

“Ngk,” agrees Crowley, eloquently.

“Mr. Anthony J Crowley! Your fame precedes you.” Aziraphale is glad when Gabriel speaks up, and that’s a first. _Anthony?_

“You don’t like it?” Crowley speaks for the first time and it’s directed at Aziraphale and oh, goodness gracious, he must have spoken aloud. What _must_ Mr. Crowley think of him?

“Uh, I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.” Oh, good _Lord_ , he has to stop _talking_ , this is an unmitigated _disaster_. As if someone called _Aziraphale_ is in any position to poke fun at someone else’s name.

Gabriel is glaring at him, and for once he can’t blame him. “So, Aziraphale, Mr. Crowley here will be your direct counterpart. After the merger the two of you will be working very closely together, so I suggest you are _very_ nice to him. More to the point, I suggest you set up a meeting A-SAP to talk about bringing our two payrolls together.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course, jolly good.” Flustered, Aziraphale turns to his notepad, scrawls _PAYROLL_ , pointlessly. Is it hot in here? Are there no windows in hell? Dimly he registers that Gabriel is still talking; has just said his name again.

“– with a presentation on the new software package. Well, not new to us, of course, but it will be imperative that your team are able to pick it up quickly, Mr. Crowley. Aziraphale?”

“Oh, yes, uh. Ahem…” Aziraphale shuffles his notes and launches into his presentation. He finds that he can just about get the words out as long as he doesn’t look at Mr. Crowley, so he focuses instead on a young man wearing a lot of eye make-up, and whose hair is teased up into two spikes resembling nothing more than bunny ears. Eric (he thinks his name was) is the recipient of the entire presentation, and the longer it goes on the more the young man appears to wilt and droop under Aziraphale’s gaze, until he worries that he will soon have literally talked him under the table. The thought makes him want to laugh, and instead he brings his talk crashing to a halt with a nervous, high-pitched giggle and sits back down abruptly. He thinks he can feel Mr. Crowley’s eyes on him, but when he risks a glance across the table, those black circles are as inscrutable as ever.

* * *

He must stare too much, because as Eric is showing them out he gives Aziraphale a sympathetic grin. “You too, eh?”

“Sorry? Me… uh… what, too?” Great, he’s completely lost the power to form coherent sentences.

“You’ve got a thing for Crowley? Can’t say I blame you. He is gorgeous, isn’t he?”

Aziraphale feels the blush spread across his face and into the tips of his ears. “Oh, I’m not… I don’t… that is to say… I hadn’t really noticed.”

Eric shrugs. “Have it your way. It’s for the best anyway. Never sleep with a colleague, they say, but if you have to, be like Hastur and Ligur and do it properly. Live together, sleep together, work together, curse each other the whole time. You know where you stand with Hastur and Ligur.” As an aside: “As far away as possible.”

“Sorry… what?”

“Oh, never mind. The point is, no-one’s ever known Crowley have a relationship in all the time he’s worked here, and he’s not likely to start now.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale tries to suppress his disappointment. “He's celibate?”

Eric’s hoot of surprised mirth must have been heard in the café next door, and possibly at the end of the street. “Crowley! Celibate! That’s a good one!”

Aziraphale had realised his mistake as soon as the words had left his mouth, but it was too late. Of course, the implications of Eric's words should have been obvious to him. His assumption had come from the fact that his thoughts have been dwelling between his own legs for rather too much of the afternoon.

Aziraphale could not blush any redder. His charity is on the rocks, his afternoon has been abysmal, he has embarrassed himself in front of the most beautiful man in the world, and now he has somehow allowed himself to be drawn into speculating on that lovely man’s sexual behaviour with an over-exuberant would-be rabbit with an inappropriately loud voice. What on Earth does he think he's doing? How mortified would Mr. Crowley be if he overheard? How mortified would Aziraphale himself be to accidentally overhear himself discussed in such a manner?

Thoroughly ashamed, Aziraphale stares down at his shoes, which unfortunately does not discourage Eric from continuing to enlighten his new colleague about his old one. “Nah, not old One Time Crowley. They say he’s out every night, pubs, clubs, bars, and looking the way he does he picks ‘em up easy. He’s not too fussy either, y’know what I’m saying? He’ll go home with anyone and he gives ‘em the time of their life, just the once. Time the sun comes up he’s gone though, no name, no number, not so much as a goodbye if he can get away with it, and he never sees ‘em again. Reckon it’d be worth it though. I heard he can do this thing with his tongue –”

“PLEASE!” Aziraphale finally regains the use of his vocal chords. “Thank you Eric, I think I’ve heard quite enough.”

* * *

It’s a pleasant afternoon, and Aziraphale elects to walk back to his flat above an old bookshop in Soho instead of taking the tube. As he walks he wrings his hands nervously in front of him, and whenever he notices himself doing that he drops his hands to tug instead on the hem of his waistcoat. Many thoughts are swirling around his mind, but walking tends to settle him, and by the time the maroon pillars of the bookshop appear in the distance the maelstrom has coalesced into two central strategies, which he tells himself he must adopt.

The first is perhaps the most straightforward. It is obvious, self-evident and absolutely cast-iron certain that Anthony J Crowley will want nothing whatsoever to do with Aziraphale outside of the workplace. He hopes that they can in time become friendly colleagues, that they can have what Gabriel would term a “positive working relationship”, but no more than that. Aziraphale knows as much just from looking at the man; people _that_ beautiful simply do not exist on the same plane as Aziraphale Fell. Eric’s insights just confirm it: this is a man who knows how to have a good time, but no-one else shines bright enough to hold his attention for more than a night. That’s fine; that’s as it should be.

So, his first resolution is never, ever to allow Crowley to see how Aziraphale feels about him, and never to allow these awkward feelings of fascination and lust to blossom into something more, as he can already feel they could so easily do. To Crowley he must appear entirely indifferent; anything else risks mortification and, quite possibly, career suicide.

His second stratagem is a little more subtle.

Whilst he’s not sure that he believes everything Eric said about Crowley (surely no-one can be out getting laid _every_ night? How utterly exhausting), it feels very easy to believe that the gist of it is true. And that realisation throws into sharp contrast the dismal emptiness of Aziraphale’s own sex life. It is time to confront a few home truths.

He is a gay man, although he has never lived as one. He has tried on the straight persona, out of a sense of misplaced obligation and a presumed statistical probability, and it has left him here, unfulfilled and alone. He thinks about Crowley, and then about Deirdre, and then about Crowley again. He considers Deirdre’s philosophy: considers how she stayed with Aziraphale until a better option presented itself, as if through a fear of finding herself alone. Then he considers Crowley’s, or what he presumes it to be: never to allow anyone to come close enough to get under his skin, thus ensuring that he will be alone always. He considers what they both have in common: that they are alive, and living lives which feel true to both of their (vastly different) natures.

And what of Aziraphale himself? He is 44 years old, and he has never followed his own inclinations in the matter of sex and relationships. His mother had wanted him to be asexual, and so he had tried his best to be; Deirdre, for a while, had wanted him to be straight, and ever obedient, he had assumed that persona. But with no-one to hold his hand and lead him through the next steps, no-one to push him, as it were, out of the closet, Aziraphale’s life has stalled. And now, seeing the man of his dreams right in front of him, he suddenly realises that he _has_ dreams. And if he must sit, five days a week, beside a lust-inspiring flame-haired vision of untouchable perfection, he is damned if he’s going to remain celibate whilst doing so.

Aziraphale is going to enter the dating world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up on Friday!


	5. We’re On Our Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see what Crowley and Aziraphale have been up to over the last six years. (Spoiler: they've been idiots throughout.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last flashback before we push on in the present day. Basically the Blitz scene, reinterpreted through the medium of third sector finance.
> 
> Board papers can be romantic and yes I will die on this hill.

**Three years ago**

“I’m telling you, angel, it’s all a con!"

“Oh, pish! That Rose Montgomery was such a lovely girl – how can you think to doubt her?”

“Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘if something seems too good to be true, it probably is’?”

“Oh, lighten up, you old cynic. Listen, we can argue about this later. Come and give me a hand, won’t you? I have to send the board papers out in half an hour and my balance sheet doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t what?”

“Balance!”

“Is that even possible, with contemporary finance software? Or are you still making manual ledger entries with quill and ink?”

“Yes, that’s right, having first done the calculations on my abacus. No, you foul fiend, I let Newt post a few journals for me yesterday and I don’t know what he can possibly have done, but it simply hasn’t been right since. I mean, it just doesn’t add up…”

“Alright, angel, let me have a look.” Crowley yawns, stretches, unfolds and stands, before sauntering across the eight or so feet between their desks. Somehow he manages to make even that seem sexy. Too late Aziraphale realizes his mistake. He stills and holds his breath, fixing his eyes on the screen as the other man reaches him and bends forward, one arm over the back of his chair, the other reaching for his mouse. He jerks his own hand away as if burnt. Why does Crowley never seem to remember that he can access all the same data from the comfort (and safe distance) of his own desk? Not for the first time, he thinks how _liberating_ it must be for Crowley, not being hopelessly, helplessly and unrequitedly in love with a colleague; not having this sense of lustful longing interrupting their every interaction.

He can feel that things are getting bad again. Tonight, he resolves, he will get back on Grindr.

* * *

When Aziraphale had first had his twin epiphanies, three years ago now, he hadn’t anticipated things turning out like this. When he had vowed to get back into the dating game he had vaguely imagined friends of friends with single friends, or eyes meeting across a crowded theatre bar during the interval. He had _not_ imagined downloading an app and using it to signal to a complete stranger that he would not be averse to sticking his tongue down their throat (or indeed into any other orifices), and yet, in the end, that had been the path he had taken.

When he had considered who in his life might think of themselves as a friend of his, the list was depressingly short. When he’d scrubbed out any current or former colleagues (too risky, somehow, although he could not have articulated _why_ he was ashamed of his desire to find a date), he’d found that he was down to just two names: Deirdre and Tracy. Somehow he just couldn’t quite bring himself to call Deirdre and ask for her help in finding a boyfriend. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t help; it was more that she would enjoy it too much. Tracy he did call, and she was sympathetic and encouraging; everything a good friend should be, in fact, except for supplied with an impressive array of single gay friends. She did put forward her cousin Sam’s best friend Charlie, who had initially sounded quite promising, and poor Tracy had been mortified when Aziraphale had reported back that yes, Charlie was practically perfect in every way except that she was a girl.

That avenue apparently exhausted, Aziraphale had thrown himself into theatre-going with joyous abandon. It was hardly a hardship, and indeed it was hardly a change from his normal routine. After a month or two of conscientiously propping up the bar and finding that the only human contact to result was a frequent trampling of his toes, Aziraphale was forced to conclude that if he had never met his soulmate in a theatre in the first 30 years or so of his attendance, there was no reason why he should do so now.

It was Tracy who had come up with the answer in the end. Still horrified by Charliegate, she had been determined to make amends, and it had been she who downloaded Grindr onto Aziraphale’s phone and, after some arm-twisting, helped him to set up a profile. From there, it had all been flatteringly easy. Once he was over his initial squeamishness Aziraphale felt relieved to have the _point_ of the whole interaction out in the open right at the start.

The first few interactions he had had were online only. Tracy had advised as much, suggesting that it was best not to jump right in at the deep end when he was still so new to the pool. But Aziraphale found phone sex tacky and embarrassing, and besides, had discovered that he found bad spelling and grammar quite the turn-off, which could be… inconvenient.

Three months after the first time he had set eyes on Crowley, almost to the day, Aziraphale met up with Michael. They went for dinner together, and laughed, and smiled, and joked about Nutella and bees, and at the end of the night Michael had walked him home and they had kissed on the steps of the bookshop. A week later he had met him again, for a trip to the theatre this time, and afterwards they had gone back to Michael’s flat in Lewisham and Aziraphale had learnt, finally, what all the fuss was about. He had gone into work the next day with what he felt sure must be a post-coital glow, and was almost surprised when none of his colleagues remarked upon it. And then, two days later, Crowley had sauntered down to Heaven’s offices for a meeting, just with him, one on one, and the glow had evaporated. For Crowley, once he relaxed a little, was not only the most beautiful creature Aziraphale had ever set eyes on. He was also smart, and generous, and funny; quick, and clever, and opinionated. He could do impressions of their colleagues. He had seen many of the same plays as Aziraphale, and shared his love of fine wines.

Crowley was perfect. And next to perfection, what could poor Michael do?

Aziraphale had not intended to end things with Michael, for Crowley was as out-of-reach as ever and his dates with the other man had been highly enjoyable. But somehow, with Crowley back at the front and centre of his mind, it didn’t feel the same. He saw Michael three more times, having sex every time but parting immediately afterwards, and when he suggested a fourth time Michael had gently let him know that he was looking for something more than Aziraphale seemed able or willing to provide, and Aziraphale had had to agree.

Emboldened by these encounters, and more sure finally of what it was he wanted (or, to be more precise, what he wanted _given that his first choice was completely out of the question_ ), Aziraphale had updated his profile. From that point on it had been clear to both parties right from the beginning that the liaison would have no sense of permanence to it. Everyone would have a good time, and nobody would get hurt. And if sometimes, in the long cold watches of the night, Aziraphale wonders about the longevity of these arrangements, and ponders a future in which he ages and dies alone, well, that is nobody’s business but his. His heart belongs to a man dressed in black, a man who will never know of the power he wields without even trying.

* * *

“Look,” Gabriel grouses, “are you honestly telling me that the two of you simply cannot agree on this?”

Crowley and Aziraphale shift uncomfortably in their seats. Aziraphale knows that Crowley’s opinion of Gabriel matches his own; they have spent too much time together in the local pub after hours, drowning their Gabriel-inspired sorrows, for him to have any doubt about that. For the last three years, they have presented a united front in the face of their boss’s vagaries. This is the first time that Aziraphale has felt that he and Crowley are on opposite sides.

The issue is an approach from a fundraising service. Rose Montgomery and her team would undertake door to door fundraising rounds, street-based collections and web campaigns; would handle promotion and advertising, gift aid claims, supporter relations, data protection… the whole package, in fact. In return for this, they would keep a percentage of the donations they generated for Heaven.

Crowley thinks it’s all a con. He argues that they are risking their positive reputation, their relationship with the local community, in return for too small a slice of the donated pie. He points out that the contract contains clauses stipulating the minimum amounts Rose Montgomery would receive, but is silent on the minimum returns for Heaven. There is too little motivation, he insists, for them to do a good job: a half-arsed attempt would see them almost as highly remunerated as fundraising excellence. And hasn’t Aziraphale seen those two doorstep fundraisers, Glozier and Harmony? Would he trust them with _his_ old Granny? What if they extorted money? What if they simply pocketed it?

In return, Aziraphale argues that they have little choice. He can read the figures; it’s his job, after all. Donations aren’t what they used to be, besides which some key government grants have dried up. Rose Montgomery is holding out a lifeline which could pull the organisation back onto more solid foundations. How can they afford to say no?

And so they have come to Gabriel for a deciding vote. Each has set out his own views, supported by such data as they have been able to get hold of, and they have agreed between themselves that whichever way Gabriel chooses to go, there will be no hard feelings.

They needn’t have bothered. Their boss flicks half-heartedly through Crowley’s paper and yawns, without even trying to suppress it, then cuts Crowley off mid-flow.

“Look, guys, I get it, ok? You both make some good points. I think the only fair way to decide is to take this to the board.”

“To the _board_?” Aziraphale is shocked. “Don’t you even want to hear our arguments?”

“Save it for Thursday night. I’ll put in a slot for the pair of you to present. If you can reach agreement by then, all well and good, just present the proposal and the board will sign it off. They’re always saying they want to be more involved with the staff, in a manner of speaking. And if you really can’t agree, both present and the board can vote. Nice and neat. Ok? Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with my tailor.”

Gabriel rises from his desk and heads for the door, then glances back at his two accountants. “Oh, and Crowley? No jeans on Thursday. Aziraphale, see if there’s something in your wardrobe which can hide…” he trails off, looks down at Aziraphale’s midriff and then resumes, “just… lose the gut.”

* * *

Thursday night rolls round, and Aziraphale feels sick. He cannot think of a time in his life when he has felt worse. He is fat. He is ugly. His boss has no respect for him at all. He is single and alone, and he is unrequitedly in love with the most beautiful man in the world, and about to go head to head with him in front of twelve trustees. Doubtless he will trip over his words, or forget how to speak, and they all will laugh at him as they side with Crowley. Then none of the finance team will be able to respect him anymore. He might as well just resign now.

Before he can move, Crowley’s voice cuts across his thoughts. It is gentle and warm, more so than it has any right to be. “Ready, angel?”

The pet name grounds him. Crowley has been using it for years, but they have never spoken of it. Sometimes Aziraphale wonders whether Crowley is even aware of it. He certainly cannot be aware of how it makes Aziraphale’s heart sing.

Aziraphale hums, a noise which could mean assent but really, could mean anything at all. But Crowley knows him by now.

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t let him get to you. He’s wrong, you know? About all of it.”

Aziraphale looks up. “What do you mean?”

“This whole stupid charade – presenting to the board – it’s all because he can’t be bothered to do his job. There was no need for us to go head to head like this, it’s a waste of everyone’s time. But here we are, eh? It’s not the end of the world, angel. Sun will still come up tomorrow.” Crowley turns back to the printer, fussing with reams of paper. He has volunteered to do all the printing for both of them, for some reason. "I suppose you're absolutely certain you don't want to reconsider?"

Aziraphale shakes his head, wordlessly. He's come too far now.

“No matter. And Angel...”

Crowley swings back to face him again, having apparently reached some sort of decision. "The other thing is bollocks as well.” He quickly looks away; stares down at his snakeskin boots.

“The… other thing?” repeats Aziraphale, faintly.

“About… you. You don’t need to… to hide, angel. Or to change. You look… you are perfect just the way you are.”

Aziraphale is glad that he is already sitting down. He wonders if he might pass out. White noise roars in his ears and over the top of it he can hear Crowley’s words on a loop, running round his brain: _perfect just the way you are perfect just the way you are perfect perfect perfect just the way –_

“ _There_ you are!” cries Gabriel triumphantly. “Come on boys, they’re ready for you!”

Aziraphale feels as if he can see everything through a fish bowl. The corridor swims in and out of focus. _Perfect just the way you are._ When they reach the conference room he steadies himself in the doorway, sucks in a deep breath. He realises he doesn’t have any papers with him, but before he can panic about that he sees Crowley by his side, holding them all.

Eleven heads turn to stare at them, twenty-two eyes burning into Aziraphale’s thoughts. There is silence just for a moment, and then Uriel, the nearest trustee, beckons them over to a pair of empty seats just beside her. “God” appears to be absent for this meeting, which is something of a blessing, Aziraphale thinks, as she does not suffer fools gladly.

“So. Welcome to the board Mr. Crowley, Mr. Fell. We understand that you have a proposal to put to us. Is it still the case that the two of you have not been able to agree over whether or not to recommend this proposal?”

Aziraphale knows he must somehow unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth, but before he can manage it Crowley is speaking, voice steady.

“No, that is no longer the case. I am pleased to confirm that we have been able to reach agreement.”

Aziraphale stares at him, stunned. What on Earth is he playing at? Does he plan to present only his side of the argument, assuming that Aziraphale will be too tongue-tied to contradict him? How _could_ he?

Before he can speak Crowley is reaching into the bundle of papers before him, selecting some and beginning to pass them round, but he has scarcely begun when the conference room door crashes open, revealing Dagon panting in the threshold.

Uriel’s eyes narrow, but she remains coldly polite. “Can we help you? There is a meeting in progress here.”

Dagon turns to face her, glassy-eyed as ever. “I know, your trusteeship. That’s why I’m here. I prepared your agendas so I know you’re talking about it tonight, so I thought you should know right away.”

“Know _what?_ ”

“BMI Fundraising is a massive con! It's all over Twitter! Montgomery, Glozier and Harmony were arrested this morning for extortion, theft, fraudulent representation and multiple breaches of fundraising regulations!”

The table erupts into shocked exclamations, but Aziraphale can hardly hear them. The bottom has just dropped out of his world. Interrupted in the act of recommending that the charity align itself with utter frauds – and to _trustees,_ no less! Now he will be a laughing stock, he will lose his job, Crowley will say _I told you so…_

He is bumped unceremoniously from his miserable reverie by Crowley’s pointy elbow in his ribs, and looks up to see panic on his colleague’s face. That doesn’t make sense. Why would _Crowley_ be panicking? He was right all along… Dimly, he registers that Crowley has taken advantage of the disturbance to surreptitiously collect back the papers he had begun to circulate, and he is now gesturing frantically for Aziraphale to do the same thing on his side. Numbly, unthinkingly he takes back Uriel’s papers, stuffing them into the front of his notebook.

“Ok, ok, settle down everybody. Are we ready to proceed? Thank you.” Uriel glares frostily around the room, her gaze settling finally on Aziraphale and Crowley. “Now, gentlemen, you were just telling us that you have reached agreement. Let us hope that you have agreed _not_ to throw our hand in with Ms Montgomery, or I fear this will be a very short discussion indeed.”

“Quite so.” Crowley’s voice is steady again, but the tips of his ears are red and Aziraphale thinks he can detect a slight quiver in his hand as he reaches, surreptitiously, into his stack of papers and _pulls out a different pile_. “If you would just pass these around, I will talk you through some of the numbers…”

Aziraphale snatches a copy as they come past him. The thin paper creases in his grip as he reads: **Alternative Fundraising Strategies**. First line: **Having concluded that the offer from BMI Fundraising Solutions should not be accepted, we…** Aziraphale skips over the rest of the text, past the carefully worked graphs and tables and options analysis, none of which he has ever seen before. He flicks straight to the foot of the final page. **Anthony J Crowley and Aziraphale Fell**.

The rest of the meeting washes over him dully, like waves lapping at a shore. He is aware of the hypnotic sound of Crowley’s voice ( _perfect just the way you are_ ), rescuing him, lying to these important and powerful people that Aziraphale has played any part in the work which truly is Crowley’s alone. He is aware of noises of assent, of approval, and then of congratulations from the trustees. He is aware of Crowley’s hand on his back, subtly nudging him into standing up, and he is nodding to the board and then following Crowley out of the room.

And then somehow they are back in their own office, now dark and deserted. Crowley, oddly, heads straight for the shredder, and the hungry whirring finally jolts Aziraphale out of his stupor.

“That was very kind of you.”

“Shut up!” returns Crowley, playfully. He looks lighter now somehow. He has removed his sunglasses and is cleaning them on his shirt. “Fuck, talk about the nick of time, eh? It’s like some kind of miracle…”

That jolts something in Aziraphale’s memory. “Why did you need to collect back those papers, Crowley? The ones you were passing round before Dagon interrupted. Is that what you were _shredding_ just now? What did they say?”

Crowley is looking very shifty. “Oh, I just realised I had copied an earlier draft.”

“So you had to shred them immediately? And you insisted on printing them all, too…” The fog is clearing now, and Aziraphale is an intelligent man, and he is suspicious. There is something in those papers which Crowley doesn’t want him to see, which means that he desperately wants to see them. Oh… hold on…

Turning his back on Crowley, Aziraphale swiftly pulls the papers he collected from Uriel from the front of his notebook and scans them. Behind him Crowley swears softly, and makes a dive for the papers; his hand closes around Aziraphale’s, and the touch sears its way through his skin and directly into the core of him. Both men freeze, still touching, as Aziraphale reads the familiar words aloud.

“‘This paper sets out the reasons why we believe the offer from BMI Fundraising Solutions represents good value for money and should be accepted…’” he flips to the last page, “’by Aziraphale Fell and Anthony J Crowley’. Crowley, you believed… you _knew_ she was a fraud. But you added your name to my paper… Crowley, _why?_ We were on opposite sides…”

This close, he can see and hear Crowley swallowing. “We’re on _our_ side, angel,” he whispers, simply. His hand still covers Aziraphale’s.

It isn't romantic. The office is dark, the only sound the quiet hum of the printer. A shaft of grey light falls through the blinds from the corridor outside, illuminating the angles and edges of the man he loves. All the solidity is gone from the world save the warm touch of Crowley’s hand, still on his, and the shape of his jaw, just inches away from him. Crowley’s sunglasses no longer sit between them, and Aziraphale gazes up into his honey-coloured eyes with something like equanimity. As he leans forward, tilts his head up, parts his lips, it is with a sense of inevitability mixed with something like relief. _Of course_ they were always going to end up here. Of course they were.

And then their lips meet and all thought recedes, chased away by the warm, soft press of one mouth on another. Their noses bump and, emboldened, it is Aziraphale who raises one hand, cups Crowley’s jaw, and gently tilts his head to slot them back together. He slides his hand round to the back of Crowley’s head as if to keep him in place, and in response Crowley whimpers, opens his mouth, and licks along Aziraphale’s lower lip and then in, deepening the kiss. Suddenly the contact between them is not enough, and Aziraphale finally extracts his other hand from beneath Crowley’s, drops the papers he was clutching and instead pulls the other man to him by his waist. For one terrible moment Crowley stiffens beneath him, almost as if to begin to pull away, and Aziraphale worries that he has read this all wrong, but then Crowley murmurs softly, something that sounds like _Oh hell, angel,_ and pulls him in, hands creeping under his jacket, mouth lapping hungrily at his own.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that, snogging like teenagers in the darkened office. If he had to guess, he thinks he would put it at something between three minutes and six thousand years. Both of their hands are roaming now, his to marvel over Crowley’s strong chest and Crowley’s to grab handfuls of Aziraphale’s arse. In this position, fronts pressed close together, he knows that Crowley will be able to feel the hard length of his arousal _but never mind that, because he can feel Crowley’s._

And then suddenly a door slams, a light flicks on, voices rise and fall in the corridor outside. The meeting is over; people are coming.

Crowley and Aziraphale leap apart as if scorched and stand staring, wide-eyed, at each other. Aziraphale can hear his own panting breath; he watches as Crowley raises a slim, long-fingered hand and runs it through his hair, trying to restore some semblance of order after Aziraphale’s hands have sent it all awry. He looks away.

No-one knows they are still in the building; no-one would expect them still to be lurking in this dark and silent office. The voices pass on down the hallway and away, the building stills again, and Aziraphale turns his gaze back to his silent counterpart. Crowley will not meet his eyes as he steps away from him, and all of a sudden the swooping of Aziraphale’s stomach turns into a plummeting fall.

Crowley regrets it already. Aziraphale can still taste him on his lips, feel the warmth of him under his hands; his scent still lingers in his nostrils – but already Crowley has pulled away, built up a wall between them. Well, of course he has. Aziraphale has always known and understood that he is not in Crowley’s league. The man could have anybody he wanted; _of course_ he would not want to waste his time with someone like him.

 _He wanted it_ , whispers Aziraphale’s treacherous inner voice. _You felt it. You felt_ him.

What had that been? Just an involuntary reaction to the physicality of the moment, nothing more. Crowley’s body had betrayed him, and now he was doubtless embarrassed by the fact. That would be why he couldn’t even bear to look at Aziraphale. Good Lord, the man had been kind – he was a good friend and a kind man and when he had not been able to talk sense into Aziraphale he had rescued him instead, and for his troubles Aziraphale had practically forced himself on him. Oh good _grief_ , it was probably an assault. Now he would lose his job for sure – would be arrested – would have to sign the sex offenders’ register…

_Say something, quickly, now!_

“Crowley, I…” The other man is over at his desk, throwing items into his laptop bag almost at random, dropping and fumbling. In go a stapler, half a pack of post-its and the crusts from Ligur’s lunchtime sandwich; Crowley only appears to come back into himself when he tries to stuff in a desktop cactus.

Aziraphale pushes on. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. That was… wrong. I didn’t mean… uh, it was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened. I just… it’s no excuse, but it’s been a long week and I… look, I’m not in my right mind, else I never should have touched you –”

Crowley’s face completely shuts down and he stills for a long moment. When he finally turns to face Aziraphale, his expression is one of resignation. “Don’t worry about it ang – Aziraphale. I understand completely. Look, it’s late, let’s get out of here and… and we’ll never speak of this again, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, quite so,” nods Aziraphale, miserably. He knows he is getting off lightly, but nevertheless he feels a sense of loss deep within his chest. Two losses, in fact, through this one ill-advised, impulsive act. Now he knows the feeling of Crowley’s lips on his, he knows how it feels to run fingers through his gorgeous red hair, he feels he could map the planes and contours of his chest from the brief time that his fingers were permitted to reside there. But he has lost these memories almost as soon as they were formed, for they are tainted with the knowledge the Crowley was not a willing participant. He cannot dwell on them now; he is not a monster. _Is he?_

Behind this sharp pain dwells a dull ache which, he suspects, will do him more damage in the end. Unlikely as it ever seemed, he has now definitively lost the ability to daydream that Crowley might possibly return his feelings. It is one thing to soldier on without ever expecting confirmation, but another altogether to have rejection spelt out for you quite so starkly.

* * *

The next day, Crowley calls in sick. Same again the day after that. He is off for a week altogether, and Aziraphale is torn between longing to see him and dreading their reunion. But when he finally saunters in, fashionably late and off-puttingly gorgeous, on the eighth day, it is as if nothing has changed between them. And so Aziraphale settles back into the groove he has worn as comfortable as an old cardigan, loving and longing from afar but never daring to touch, to flirt, to hint. This is enough. It has to be. And it is, for the next three years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up on Monday!


	6. It's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the charity is on the rocks, all their jobs are at risk, but they still have each other. Right guys? 
> 
> Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me! We're past the halfway point now. 
> 
> This one is the lowest, angstiest chapter - after this things will slowly start to get better, I promise.

**Thursday**

Two days later, Lucy’s news is still the only topic of conversation around the office. All the staff have received official, written confirmation that their roles are at risk of redundancy, and speculation abounds over who will stay and who will go.

There is anger, too. Not at Lucy and Gabriel, and the steps they are taking now, but at the all-powerful and ultimately dastardly presence whose theft last year had brought them to the brink of this catastrophe.

At first, it had been hushed up. It was Aziraphale who had made the discovery, one ordinary Tuesday morning when he had logged on to check the bank balances. Heaven had had a savings account with Metatron Bank, containing almost £1.5m in unrestricted reserves. It now contained less than ten pounds.

He hadn’t been able to believe his eyes at first. Had quietly summoned Crowley for a second opinion. They had logged off and on again but seen the same result, and eventually Aziraphale had shut himself away in an empty office and called the bank, asking them to explain in person. They had done so.

The money had been transferred into a third party account three weeks ago, on Heaven’s own instruction. _What instruction_ , Aziraphale had asked, and had been furnished with a form, signed by God and Lucy Ferris and faxed from the office machine.

Now thoroughly perplexed, Aziraphale and Crowley had gone together to Gabriel and Lucy, who had vehemently denied signing any such form. A surreptitious investigation had taken place, during which it was discovered that young Newton Pulsifer, the rather hapless junior accounts assistant, had been working late one night when God herself had walked in with the signed form and the urgent instruction to send it. It was remarkable, Crowley had put in sourly, that the boy had managed to make the fax machine work. Normally he was the death of all machines.

God had planned it well. The trustees were not involved in the day to day running of the organisation, but somehow it seemed she had known that Newt was due to take off on annual leave for two weeks starting from the following day. That had helped her on two counts: firstly, that he was working late, alone, in order to finish up, and secondly that he would not mention the transaction to any of his colleagues in casual conversation until his return. The savings account sat largely dormant and Newt’s holiday memories soon pushed the incident from his mind, so in fact almost three weeks passed between the theft and the day Aziraphale noticed it whilst preparing month end accounts.

The police were called, of course, and an investigation was carried out, but by that time both God and the money were long gone. The account into which the transfer had taken place was just the first of a long line of such accounts, based around the globe and all attached to fake IDs. None of God’s details as stored by Heaven or by the authorities were current, and no-one had seen hide nor hair of her. She had gone to ground, and so had most of Heaven’s money. Lucy’s signature was concluded to be a high quality fake, with the quality of the fax masking such small discrepancies as there might have been.

Of course, by this time the news was out, both within the office and in the local and eventually national press. Heaven was the subject of some derision, given that those responsible appeared to be entirely internal: the chairman of the board of trustees had stolen £1.5m by faking the signature of a senior manager and then befuddling a junior accountant, and then the icing on the cake was that Heaven’s own finance department hadn’t even noticed that the money was gone for three weeks. “They didn’t deserve to keep it then,” was the prevailing public opinion, and it had cut Crowley and Aziraphale to the quick. They had hoped that the theft was consigned to history, but it is clear now that it lurks still, just below the surface. AAtleast internally, people at Heaven have never blamed any of the finance team.

Crowley is as angry with God as the next employee, but this week he thinks he might be the only person not wholly preoccupied with work matters. Call him misguided, but he has not felt the shock of this impact anything like as severely as that of the other he received today.

 _Sort of seeing someone_. Ever since Hastur said them, those four words have gone round his head in an endless loop.

Crowley has always known that Aziraphale is out of his league. Crowley himself is good for a quick shag, but the angel deserves more than that. He is the sort of man you would make a home with; build a life, a future. Nobody wants that with Crowley. (People may sometimes have thought they did, but no – Crowley has been down that road too many times, and he _knows_ that he is not enough for them to want to stay the distance.)

Perhaps, if things had been different, they could have had something. Not a relationship, Crowley isn’t _that_ optimistic, but a fling at least. He knows instinctively that it would have been the best of his life. What wouldn’t he have given for even just one night…

But it was not to be. There had been a time when he had dared to hope, but his hopes were dashed after that ridiculous fundraising fiasco three years ago. When the angel had turned his face up toward him, wide-eyed in a darkened room, his features just begging to be kissed. And Crowley had closed the gap, and for a few glorious moments he was exactly where he wanted to be: his lips on Aziraphale’s, his tongue in the angel’s mouth, his hands roving over his soft, strong body. In that moment Crowley knew that the angel had wanted him too, and the knowledge had lit his every nerve ending on fire, poured down his spine like molten lava. And then –

And then.

It hadn’t taken much. One brief interruption, and Aziraphale had stopped looking at Crowley as if he had hung the stars and had instead looked at him with something akin to panic. Had almost tripped over his tongue in his urgent need to explain to Crowley that the whole thing had been a huge mistake; that he would never even have touched him if he had been in his right mind.

That one had stung.

But there was no getting away from it – after they had kissed, Aziraphale had been _miserable_. The man must _know_ the effect he had on Crowley – even before the kiss, he must have been able to tell that Crowley lit up inside like a Christmas tree if he so much as turned his beautiful hazel-eyed gaze in his direction. He must know about Crowley’s unrequited lo- uh, _crush._ He must have been able to sense that once Crowley had had a taste, he would want more; that his stupid battered old heart would seize on the tiny morsel it had been thrown and make from it a feast. And Aziraphale, kind Aziraphale would never have intended to lead him on – of course he was miserable. The man had been in a tizzy all that week, what with their disagreement and Gabriel’s comments and the stress of the board meeting. And then Crowley had swooped in to rescue him like some sort of knight in shining _fucking_ armour and the adrenaline had been flowing and… that was all it had been. A normal, purely physical response to the absurd situation in which they found themselves. Aziraphale would never have touched him, had he been in his right mind.

Crowley had felt properly heartbroken then. He had taken a week off to recover, and had slept through almost all of it because then it didn’t hurt as much. It wasn’t like a break-up – and he had had enough of those to be something of an expert – but there was something about the death of hope which left him feeling scrubbed raw and bleeding inside.

A week had been as long as he could take before he would have needed a sick note from his doctor, and that sounded too much like work. So as his return to the office loomed closer, Crowley had made a conscious effort to pull himself together. So Aziraphale didn’t want him. Well, he had always known that really; there was no point in sulking over it now. Crowley was still very lucky. He and the angel were good friends, in a strictly professional capacity. He saw him five days out of seven, sat close to him, heard about what was going on in his life. Now either he could mope, or he could get back in there and resume his friendship, and continue to feed his starving heart on the cut-off scraps of each interaction. (When he’d put it like that, neither option had actually sounded that healthy. After a few moments’ reflection Crowley had simply told himself not to be so melodramatic and followed the inclination of his heart, which was always to be as close to Aziraphale as he was permitted to be and damn the consequences.)

That was three years ago. The kiss has never been mentioned again by either of them, and neither has there been anything even close to hinting at a repeat. But still they sit together, drink together after work, seek out each other’s professional opinions. Crowley still has to work at it, has to deliberately sublimate his own desires, but when all is said and done (when _nothing_ is said or done, whispers his heart, still sulking) they are still on their own side.

And now, just at the point when it seems all will be torn asunder – when Heaven will founder and its denizens scatter far and wide – fate has handed him a chance. A chance for Crowley and Aziraphale to run away together. Crowley has been turning it over and over in his head, and he honestly cannot predict how Aziraphale will react. Will he agree to come with him to Youngs? All he knows is that there is no possible universe in which Crowley doesn’t ask him to.

Which is why they are in the _Eden_ , even though it’s only Thursday. It still isn’t romantic, but it’s quieter today and there is no live music on the bill. Crowley wonders vaguely why they don’t do this on Thursdays every week.

Aziraphale has been quiet all day. Now he sits across from Crowley at their usual table, alternating between sipping slowly from his glass of the house red and distractedly shredding a beer mat. There is a sort of gloomy darkness in his countenance, replacing the glow which usually lights him from within, and he hasn’t insulted Crowley all evening, so he can tell his angel is distracted.

“So…” Crowley starts. Falters. “You’re probably wondering why I asked you to come here?”

“Hmmm?”

“Here. On a Thursday. You, me. Why?” Good grief, it’s pathetic. _Speak! Words!_

Crowley steels himself. He has been thinking of ways to frame the question ever since his meeting with Adam and Warlock, but nothing he has tried sounds right.

Maybe it’s best just to come straight out with it.

“So… you know how Adam and Warlock have been hanging around all week?”

Aziraphale rouses himself. “Oh, yes, I did wonder about that. Do you have a theory, dear boy?”

“Ngk… I… better than that, angel. I _know_ why.”

“Oh yes?” Aziraphale still sounds only very slightly interested.

“Yes.” Crowley squares his shoulders. “They want us.”

Aziraphale looks up, squints at Crowley through his little round lenses. “I beg your pardon?!”

“It’s true. They offered me a job. Us jobs. Both of us. Working for the Young Trust. Together.” Crowley is babbling now, trying to fill Aziraphale in on the terms and conditions, the job titles, the benefits, the nature of the roles, quickly before he can puncture Crowley’s heart by turning it down. “We can go off together!” That was not quite how he had intended to put it.

“Go off… together?” There is one long, glorious moment in which Crowley dares to believe that Aziraphale is considering it, before his face falls and the shutters come down. “Listen to yourself. You want me to leave Heaven? Do you understand what you’re asking of me?”

“Heaven is going down the pan angel, you know it is. The money is running out and we’re all about to get our marching orders. There is no Heaven anymore.”

“No, no, that can’t happen!” Aziraphale is almost in tears. “There is still a way out. I’ve been thinking about it, I’ve run the numbers – I have a plan! We can rebuild! If I can just reach the right people…”

“There aren’t any right people! There was just God, and she let us all down –”

“Yes, and that’s why I will have a word with God, and she will return the money she stole –”

“That – won’t happen! You’re so clever – how can someone as _clever_ as you be _so stupid_?”

Aziraphale flinches, as if Crowley has just slapped him, and it cuts Crowley to his marrow. Regret overwhelms him.

“C’mon angel, you and me. How long have we been friends? Six years!” Crowley throws his arms open in an expansive gesture; offers up his heart with no more protection than the flimsy hope that Aziraphale will be kind.

“Friends, we’re not friends! We are colleagues who happen to do the same job! We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you!”

Crowley can’t believe it. “You _do_!”

“I should never have expected you to understand. You're not from Heaven. You’re from HELP; we’re on opposite sides!”

“WE’RE ON _OUR_ SIDE!”

There is a beat of silence. Crowley wonders, through the ache at the back of his throat and the tears welling up behind his eyes, whether they both are remembering the last time he said those words: amidst the grey dust motes falling in silvered lines across the dark, silent office, both of them clutching a scrap of paper on which he had scrawled his love in numbers and charts and redeeming lies.

Aziraphale stills, focuses; looks Crowley in the eye. That makes his next words hurt all the more.

“There is no ‘ _our side’_ , Crowley. Not anymore.” He breathes in, just once. “It’s over.”

* * *

Well then.

On some level he feels as if he is a very small Crowley, sitting on a high shelf in his pristine apartment, gazing down at standard-Crowley with a sort of academic detachment. Isn’t it _interesting_? He had thought that Aziraphale had broken his heart once before but _look_ , here he was, broken-hearted once again. More so? The same amount? How does one quantify heartbreak? Did it ache so much, last time? Was there this same sense of emptiness?

He thinks it is different now, worse now, because of the hopelessness. Last time he had pulled himself out of his little personal hell with the realisation that he could still have a part of Aziraphale, even if it would never be enough to satisfy his dry, wizened little heart. All he needed to do was to show up at work and there the angel would be, tapping away at his PC, squinting myopically through his tiny round glasses, blushing so fetchingly when Crowley made deliberately risqué remarks. But now… this is different. This is the end of Crowley’s world.

Crowley wasn’t born yesterday. He knows how unusual their little arrangement is. Not many charities would have kept them both on after the merger, and allowed them to design their new roles around each other. It shouldn’t work. He and Aziraphale are polar opposites, but somehow they fit together, complement each other. He has been clinging to his job at Heaven because he knows that it will never happen again – and then by some miracle Adam Young pops up in the nick of time and dangles it in front of him.

And Aziraphale has rejected him.

This, finally, is confirmation of what on some level he has secretly known to be true all along. To Aziraphale, he is nothing more than the latest in a long line of colleagues. The angel’s job at Heaven is the one constant of his adult life, and when the chips are down it is the most important thing to him. People like Crowley will come and go, and for a while they will laugh and joke, drink together, trust each other, complete each other’s sentences. And then Crowley will move on, without him, and Aziraphale will carry on as before, waiting patiently for his replacement. With whom he will laugh and joke, drink together...

He cannot know that to Crowley, this is so much more. Crowley had known his heart to be closed off, impenetrable; had in fact prided himself on this being the case. Until six years ago, when his fluffy-haired counterpart had somehow slipped past every defence he had in place, all the walls he had so carefully erected, and had taken possession of Crowley’s heart in its shrivelled entirety.

This _is_ the end of the world.

* * *

Half a mile away, in the heart of Soho, Aziraphale does something he never, ever does. He finally allows himself to cry, great, ugly, heaving sobs which wrack his body and leave him breathless. He wishes he could take it back, take all of it back. Swallow those horrible words which had hurt Crowley so much; words which had scored deep and uncrossable lines between them. 

_We're not friends._

_I don't even like you._

_There is no 'our side'._

_It's over._

Crowley could never be allowed to understand that the uncrossable line had been in place for years already; that Aziraphale had drawn it himself, by allowing his feelings to get the better of him. He had tumbled into an abyss of lust and longing which would horrify Crowley, if ever he were to suspect the truth. If Crowley had the slightest idea of Aziraphale's true feelings, he would not be persuading him that they should start a new job together. He would be running away as fast as those long legs could carry him, pity and horror at war across his handsome face. And Aziraphale would spare him that; would spare both of them that.

So he sits up, squares his shoulders, dries his eyes. Crowley will move on, like a lantern in the dark: will shine brightly on new colleagues and dazzle new short term conquests in pubs and clubs. And Aziraphale will remain behind in the twilight, stuck in his rut with just his memories and his longing as company. Now he must try to piece his shattered heart back together bit by bit, and hope that he can muster up a glue strong enough to hold it steady against the ravages of time. 

This is the way things have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! Next chapter up on Thursday.


	7. Back to Basics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After what happened last night, the boys need some time and space to lick their wounds. What they get instead is a residential charity accountancy conference in Tadfield. And as if that weren't enough, there appears to have been some sort of problem with the room bookings...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This conference is a real thing. I went once, a long time ago. They had a magician for the after dinner entertainment, and he was rather better than Aziraphale. 
> 
> Unfortunately that's the only thing about the whole conference that I can remember with any clarity, so the one in this fic is entirely made up.

**Friday again**

_It must be some sort of test_ , Aziraphale thinks.

Aziraphale is loyal to Heaven. Always has been. The charity has always looked after him, and he it. After 25 years it has come to define his identity. Who would he be, without it? He imagines starting again, where no-one knows who he is. Having to learn new systems, make judgement calls on new characters. Prove himself; learn to trust, and earn the trust of others. Build new working relationships, with new versions of Crowley.

Crowley.

Crowley, who has always looked after him. Crowley, who asked Aziraphale to come away with him. Crowley, who found new posts for them both, and who now stands, one hand outstretched, waiting to pull Aziraphale through this mess and out onto firm ground, on the other side.

Crowley, who has no idea that Aziraphale is in love with him. Who would be horrified, if he were ever to guess the truth.

Over the years, Aziraphale has grown quite adept at denial. If the truth is uncomfortable, he would always prefer to push it away. But sometimes, just occasionally, he does his penance by forcing himself to face the truth, and allowing himself to imagine unimaginable consequences.

Now he imagines metaphorically reaching out, taking hold of Crowley’s waiting hand. He imagines the slim warmth of fingers closing around Aziraphale’s own. He imagines himself leaning in, as he had done three years ago, raising one hand to cup the back of Crowley’s neck. He imagines Crowley’s gasp, his sudden stillness; the soft, slight push of his free hand on Aziraphale’s chest as the other man gently extricates himself from his grasp. He allows his mind to range over the stuttered explanations and apologies. Hears how Crowley just doesn’t feel that way; how for him this has only ever been friendly and professional. Hears how aghast he is at having inadvertently raised Aziraphale’s expectations through that one lapse, three years ago. And then (because once he is on this train, he might as well ride it to the end of the line) he sees Crowley’s resignation letter. Hears him accept the blame for their clearly unworkable predicament; watches the love of his life saunter away into someone else’s.

What is to be done? Although Aziraphale cannot bring himself to confront the possibility of Heaven’s demise, on another level he is realistic enough to be pessimistic about the chances of his conversation with God yielding good results – assuming he can even find her. Crowley will go, that much is clear. Should Aziraphale stay, and hope for redemption? Or leave, try to forget all about Crowley _and_ Heaven, and make a new start? Is he strong enough to do that? Will he have a choice?

It would help, Aziraphale thinks, if he had a little more insight into Heaven’s position on the matter. And that’s how he finds himself outside the door of Gabriel’s office, late on a Friday afternoon, wringing his hands nervously.

Everything about Gabriel makes him nervous; it always has done. The man is the very antithesis of Aziraphale. Big and brash, loud and American, Gabriel exudes a sense of disappointment in Aziraphale.

Just when he thinks his boss must not be in, and prepares to retreat with no small sense of relief, he feels a heavy hand land on his shoulder and is hard-pressed to suppress an actual shudder.

“Aziraphale! What a pleasant surprise! Were you here to see me? Now, come in, come in. You know I always make time for my favourite Finance Officer, even when you do forget to make an appointment…”

Aziraphale allows himself to be ushered into the office, ignoring the way Gabriel just demoted him. His boss has these little tricks to remind staff of their position, relative to him.

“So,” says Gabriel, once the pair are settled in his stiff, stylized designer office furniture. “Lay it on us!”

“Um, I’m sorry?”

Gabriel leans forward, fixing him with those disconcertingly beautiful eyes of his, so blue they seem almost purple. Aziraphale shifts away, balancing precariously on the contemporary cube thing he has chosen. Gabriel’s next words are pointed, deliberate. “ _What’s happening_?”

“Oh. Er, yes, of course. I. Erm. I was just wondering whether you might be able to give me any indication of… future plans… for… me. Us. The Finance Team. Whether you had decided…”

“Aziraphale. Azi. You’ve been here, what, eight or nine years now –”

“Twenty-six in August.”

“Yeah, yeah, long time, long time. Heaven looks after its most loyal, Aziraphale.”

He brightens. “Does that mean…?”

Gabriel reaches over to his desk, and extracts a small folder from a stash of papers. “I was actually going to come find you next week, but since you’re here I’ll tell you now. That way I can put your mind at rest before the weekend, in a manner of speaking.”

“Oh I say, that’s very kind indeed –”

“Think nothing of it Az. Like I say, Heaven looks after its own.” Gabriel drops the folder into Aziraphale’s hand, and smirks as he watches him flick it open.

“ _Regional Finance Director?!_ ”

“Great, huh?”

“We don’t have one of those. We’ve never needed one. Gabriel, the deficit… how will we afford…?”

“Oh, it’s not for us.”

“You… pardon?!”

“It’s all in there sunshine, keep reading.”

Aziraphale looks down, but the words are swimming on the page and he cannot focus. “Perhaps you could just explain the… umm… highlights?”

“You, my friend, are going to the Amazon!”

“BRAZIL?”

“Oh, is that the Amazon? No, no, not Brazil. The other place. Begins with a B.”

Aziraphale doesn’t think he would be capable of rational conversation, even if he wanted to speak at this point. He watches Gabriel scratch at his head, mugging theatrically.

“Borneo!”

“B… b… Borneo?”

“Yeah, isn’t it great? You’re going to get such a tan. And there’s this great little street food festival…”

Aziraphale lets him talk for a while. It’s easier that way. The words wash over him, but before Gabriel runs dry he manages to establish that the job is with one of Heaven’s partners “on the ground”. It comes with a “cabin” and, apparently, as many pina coladas as Aziraphale can drink.

“So there’s nothing left… for me… here. With Heaven.”

“Heavens, no! Hey look, did you see what I did there? _Heavens, no._ Get it? Get it?”

Aziraphale forces his face into a watery smile.

“No, this place is going down the toilet I’m afraid, sunshine. In six months, Heaven for Everyone will be consigned to the history books. Struck off the register of companies. Wound up. Liquidated…”

Suddenly Aziraphale has to get away. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that if he stays put any longer he will lose his lunch into Gabriel’s trendy silver wastepaper basket.

“Well, Gabriel, that’s certainly an amazing opportunity. Yes, indeed. I’ll, erm, spend the weekend thinking things through. Yes, jolly good. Tickety-boo. Mind how you go!”

“Oh, and Aziraphale?”

He turns slowly in the doorway. “Yes?”

“You haven't forgotten about the Charity Accountants Conference, have you?”

Aziraphale tries to school his features into the look of someone who most definitely had not forgotten. “You, erm, still want me to go? I thought in view of the situation…”

“Well of course we want you to go! Crowley too. Your places are booked, the hotel rooms, your train ticket… all non-refundable. And you know value for money is more important now than ever!”

Oh, good _Lord_. What fresh torture was this? For the last six years he has enjoyed this annual conference. It's just possible that the fact that this is as close as he will ever come to going on holiday with Crowley might have something to do with it. But now? He and Crowley are barely speaking. Aziraphale has rejected Crowley, to save them both from his misguided affections, and he can’t even explain to him why he has done it. There is nothing to be done now but to move on, and allow Crowley to move on too, in a different direction. Heaven will founder, that much looks certain. Crowley has a new role, and Aziraphale will have to find one too. Not in Borneo, he knows that, and not with the Young Trust. Something else, where he can start again, painful though that will be. But before that he has to keep his head down, avoid Crowley as much as possible. Avoid seeing the pain in his eyes; avoid blurting out the truth, in an ill-advised attempt to take it away which is sure to backfire. _I’m sorry Crowley, I didn’t mean it. It’s just that I’m in love with you, you see, and I’m sorry, I’ve tried to get over you but I can’t._

He takes a deep breath. Very well. This doesn’t have to be so hard. They always travel separately; Crowley loves his vintage Bentley, and Aziraphale loves remaining alive and uninjured and so hasn’t accepted his offer of a lift since their very first conference together. There must be more than 200 delegates at the conference. There is no need for them to cross paths when they are there.

He lifts his chin and makes eye contact with Gabriel. “Excellent. I can hardly wait.”

“This weekend, isn’t it?”

To his credit, Aziraphale barely blinks. “That’s right, I’m… getting the train down… tonight.”

“Excellent, excellent. Well, don’t let me keep you.”

Aziraphale smiles weakly at Gabriel’s retreating back. “Jolly good.”

* * *

Crowley has forgotten too.

“Shit shit shit shit shit! I’m not even packed!”

“Go now, both of you! Get a move on!” Bee shoos them towards the door.

The conference itself isn’t actually too bad. It’s always a good couple of days, with freebies, good food, hotel facilities and generally very little effort required on his part. And, obviously, a chance to share breakfast, lunch, dinner and quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol with his favourite colleague. If only said colleague were speaking to him…

In the cold light of a new day, Crowley has taken stock. Has reeled in his over-ambitious heart; locked it away again safely, where it belongs. He had allowed himself to hope, and to dream, and just as had happened every other time, his hopes and dreams had been trampled underfoot. Now he will be realistic. He cannot have a relationship with Aziraphale. Can’t hold his hand, kiss his soft lips, run his fingers through his fluffy hair. Will never find him waiting for him at home or warming his large, empty bed.

Neither, now, can he expect to be his colleague. They will not see each other every day. Gradually they will lose the ability to complete each other’s thoughts, to operate as one unit. All of that is gone; Aziraphale has made clear that he doesn’t want it.

But (he tells himself, because he has to believe it) perhaps it is possible to salvage something. Perhaps they can still meet – maybe not weekly, but maybe once a month. Maybe they can become friends. Maybe they can do some of those things he used to imagine doing on dates – visiting the British Museum, or going to the theatre. All he needs to do is to allow Aziraphale to get over Crowley’s stupid, impassioned declaration of the day before, and convince him that his feelings are purely platonic. He will come round, as long as Crowley doesn’t try to force the issue.

 _What, like by going away with him for the weekend?_ asks the voice in Crowley’s head, more scornfully than Crowley considers truly necessary.

 _It’s not a holiday,_ he argues back. _It’s completely professional. There will be 200 people there. We hardly need to see each other…_

* * *

Crowley takes a deep breath. He grips the strap of his bag more tightly, and tries to suppress the urge to use it to throttle the receptionist. He shifts restlessly from foot to foot in the hotel lobby, an activity which is a poor outlet for all his nervous energy.

“What do you mean, _you cancelled it_?”

The young man reminds him of Newt. He certainly seems to have a similar affinity with computers, judging by the way he is stabbing wildly at the keyboard of the one in front of him.

“We, umm. I think… we thought it was a duplicate booking…?”

“Why, for Satan’s sake, would it have been a duplicate booking? Do you have another Anthony J Crowley staying here this weekend?”

“No, sir, but we do have another Finance Manager from Heaven for Everyone. I think the booking system confused the two. Perhaps… perhaps the other booking is actually yours?”

“Not if it’s in the name of Aziraphale Fell.” Crowley watches the young man’s face fall. “We share an employer, we share a job title, we share many of the same roles and responsibilities but, trust me on this, we do not share a room. Excuse me.”

Crowley’s mobile phone has started to ring, and he turns away from the bewildered receptionist to answer it. It is Gabriel, which is pretty much guaranteed to make his evening worse.

“Crowley, hey. Just checking in –”

“You’re doing better than me, then,” Crowley mutters under his breath.

“What was that?”

Crowley explains that the hotel has apparently decided it is impossible that two colleagues could share a job title, and has therefore cancelled his room booking without notice.

“Don’t they have another room? A free stay is the least they can do to make up for all this inconvenience.” Gabriel sounds most aggrieved, as if said inconvenience is troubling him personally.

“I already tried that. Everything is booked up for this conference. Look, Gabe, I’m just going to drive home. It’s only 40 miles each way, I can be back for the first session in the morning.”

“Through the London rush hour, and at 45p a mile? I don’t think so sunshine. Stay with Aziraphale.”

“I –”

“Yes, yes, I know he’s a bit fusty. I know he must cramp your style at these things, fat little lump that he is. Alright, leave it with me, I’ll see if I can find another local hotel. But those bastards are footing the bill –”

The anger coursing through Crowley’s brain makes it impossible for him to think straight. It must do. That’s the only way he can explain what he says next. “No! No. Aziraphale is – isn’t – I’ll share with him. I’ll be happy to.”

“What a trooper! Take one for the team, eh? Good man. Now must dash. Companies don’t just dissolve themselves, you know!”

“Ngk,” manages Crowley, but Gabriel is gone.

* * *

Where on Earth is Crowley?

Aziraphale knows that his colleague always likes to cut it fine. He leaves London far too late, trying to avoid the worst of the rush hour, and never seems to mind if he misses the beginning of dinner. But pudding is being brought round now, a lovely creamy-looking panna cotta, and his colleague still has not made an appearance.

“Waiting for someone?”

The voice belongs to his immediate neighbour, a young man with fine, chiselled features and a strong jaw, whose dark hair is slicked back under the weight of a not inconsiderable amount of gel.

“I’m sorry?”

“Just, you keep peering round the room. I thought maybe you had a friend coming.”

“Oh, he’s not my friend. We hardly even know each other.” The words come by force of habit by now. “But I am surprised I haven’t seen him yet…”

“I’m sure he’ll show up,” offers the young man, somewhat dismissively Aziraphale feels. Although he can’t exactly complain, when he himself has been so quick to downplay Crowley’s importance. “I’m Stuart.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Stuart. I am Aziraphale Fell. Bit of a mouthful, I know.”

“No, cool name, cool name. What do your friends call you?”

“Angel! We need to talk.”

“Oh, _there_ you are! I was getting worried. Where _have_ you _been_? Never mind. Crowley, this is… erm…”

“Yeah, great, hi, nice knowing you. Come _on_ , angel!”

* * *

“I see.”

Aziraphale has that pursed-lipped look that he only wears when he is seriously peeved. This might be even worse than Crowley has anticipated. At least he had turned back to the table, at the last minute, and snagged Aziraphale’s panna cotta for him. If he had missed his pudding for this news, there really would have been hell to pay.

“I’m sorry, ange – Aziraphale. I know this isn’t ideal. I was perfectly willing to commute to and from London, but Gabriel vetoed it.”

“I expect he can’t see past the pound signs in his eyes, as usual. If you room with me he incurs no extra cost, and he’ll probably get my room free as well, in compensation.”

Crowley can see the truth of this.

“Well.” Aziraphale squares his shoulders, and very visibly pulls himself together. “We are both mature, sensible, fully-fledged adult accountants. We can certainly cope with three nights in the same room.”

“Yeah?”

“Indeed. Now, you’d better find yourself some dinner before they stop serving, and if you’ll excuse me I need a shower. It’s been rather a long and difficult day. Our room is number 212 – take my key card, and I’ll go to reception and request another on my way up.”

“Thanks, angel. You’re being very good about this.”

“Think nothing of it, dear boy. It’s really not important. Right, toodle-pip.”

* * *

Crowley isn’t a big eater at the best of times, and this is certainly not the best of times. His stomach might as well be on a roller coaster. He buys a bag of overpriced peanuts at the bar and eats them slumped in a corner, interspersed with sips of Talisker because if Gabriel won’t let him drive, he’s going to make sure he bloody well drinks.

Only twenty minutes pass before he lets himself into room 212, and it honestly doesn’t occur to him that Aziraphale might be expecting him to take longer until an inner door swings open at the exact same time and leaves him standing face to face with the other man, with less than a foot between them.

Aziraphale has clearly only just finished showering. His normally fluffy hair now hangs damply but yet still attractively around his ears. He has a towel around his waist but his chest is bare, and it would take a stronger man than Crowley not to allow his eyes to wander down there momentarily.

Oh, but he's _gorgeous_.

His chest is broad, and dusted with silvery blond hair. His muscles aren't defined, exactly, but they are very clearly there, just under the surface, and Crowley can't help the little frisson of excitement that runs through him at the thought of the strength of the man, and how he might put it to use. It hardly helps that they are alone together, in their shared room, with the bed looming monstrously just behind the angel's shoulder.

Aziraphale blinks at him, wide-eyed, through the steam, and flushes a deep pink. He crosses his arms over his chest protectively, and Crowley tugs his gaze away, cursing himself for a stupid, besotted fool. First he tells the man that they must share a room, then he openly ogles his naked torso.

It sounds big-headed, but it’s true: Crowley has very rarely had to make sexual advances himself. He tends to sit back, and allow others to proposition him. Now he remembers why. How on earth does one do this without feeling lecherous as fuck? And he isn’t even trying to flirt with Aziraphale, for heaven’s sake! This is just him trying to be a colleague-who-might-soon-become-a-friend. _Jesus._

“I… uhh… ngk. Sorry. I… I’ll give you a bit longer.”

“No, no, don’t worry. I just wasn’t expecting you so soon. Come in, come in. Make yourself at home. I’ll just…”

Aziraphale disappears backwards into the bathroom, and Crowley grips his bag tightly and edges further into the room. It’s pretty standard fare for this hotel chain: bed, chair, desk, fitted wardrobe complete with slightly ghoulish headless hangers, a TV mounted on the wall at the foot of the bed. The heating has been cranked up to max and, as usual, the controls don’t appear to have any effect at all. He experiments with the window, but as expected it is fitted with a chain which doesn’t allow it to open more than a couple of inches.

The door to the bathroom opens again and Aziraphale emerges, this time much drier and wrapped in at least three towels. He hooks his bag from the side of the bed and retreats again, presumably to get changed into his pyjamas away from Crowley’s intrusive gaze.

Crowley swallows and looks away, stares at the wall. He has long maintained a mental image bank of his angel, but it mostly contains sudden, unexpected smiles and the odd conspiratorial look. That evening in the office three years ago takes up an entire room in his mental vault. But he has never, ever had occasion to see so _much_ of Aziraphale’s strong, soft body, and this is going to take him a while to process.

He still hasn’t moved by the time Aziraphale returns, now clad in tartan cotton pyjamas. It’s amazing, how the man manages to look so damn sexy in whatever monstrosity he chooses to wear. Really shouldn’t be allowed.

Aziraphale stands on the other side of the bed, almost nervously. “Do you have any preference? About where to sleep…?”

“Oh, you have the bed, angel, I’ll take the so–”

There is no sofa.

Crowley looks around wildly, as if the small, square room could somehow be concealing a man-sized bed substitute. Still nothing. Just the bed, which looks to be a decent double, and the chair, which is the sort which looks to have been designed specifically to prevent its occupant from becoming too comfortable.

“The chair, I’ll take the chair.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale is still blushing, from his neck to the tips of his ears. “No-one could sleep in that thing. It would be torture enough just to sit in it. There’s plenty of room in the bed. It doesn’t have to be weird, we’re both grown men.”

Crowley refrains from commenting on why, exactly, he is in danger of being very weird about it indeed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Which side?”

 _Our side_. Is it possible that the words echo around Aziraphale’s head with the same frequency, the same meaningfulness as they do in Crowley’s? No way of telling; Aziraphale couldn’t possibly blush any harder if he tried.

“Umm, shall we just stay on the sides we’re on now?”

“That’s fine. Listen, I’m going to turn in. It’s been a long day, as I said. The bathroom is just...” he gestures vaguely behind him, “...and I think everything else is fairly self-explanatory. Feel free to put the TV on, it won’t disturb me. I’ve brought a couple of books so I’ll probably just read in bed for a while.”

“Right, right, ok. Thanks, angel.”

Crowley swallows. It’s going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I haven't resolved anything, but I've got them into bed together, yes? Progress?
> 
> Next chapter up on Sunday!


	8. There’s No-one Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a few discoveries are made, some of which are even true. 
> 
> And they both need a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's a full day at the charity accountants conference. Don't say I never give you anything. 
> 
> To the lovely people shouting at me in the comments: I hope this chapter makes you feel slightly better. Although not too much better, we still have a little way to go...

**Saturday**

Aziraphale is wide awake.

For the last twenty minutes or so he has watched a sliver of light advance, slowly but inexorably, across the swirling artex ceiling. He supposes from the general light levels in the room that it must be morning, but he doesn’t check, even though his mobile phone lies on the bedside table only a foot away from his head. He doesn’t move at all; even tries not to breathe too deeply or too harshly.

Crowley, he suspects, had forgotten to pack his pyjamas. Or perhaps the omission had been deliberate – who was to know? It was no-one else’s business what he wore in the privacy of his hotel room. But circumstances had conspired to ensure that there was no privacy. Crowley had looked pretty sheepish (and pretty gorgeous, Aziraphale’s inner voice did _not_ add), emerging from the bathroom last night in just the t-shirt he had travelled in and a pair of boxers – but that would be nothing compared to how sheepish he is going to feel when he wakes up this morning.

One skinny leg is hooked over Aziraphale’s broader ones. One bare arm is stretched across Aziraphale’s chest, pulling him close. Another arm loops above Aziraphale’s head, fingers nestled in his hair. And Crowley’s own head lies on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his breath ghosting warmly over his chest hair. Aziraphale hasn’t dared to move at all, even to try to catch a glimpse of those delicate features, so dear to him, relaxed into sleep. But his peripheral vision is filled with the brilliant red of Crowley’s hair, his nostrils breathe in the scent of him and it is better than anything Aziraphale has ever experienced before, better than sex, better than a promotion, better than a really good bank reconciliation–

Crowley will be mortified.

It is this thought, and only this, which is troubling him. For himself, he could stay here for hours, nestled in the arms of the man he lov– uh, the man he has been attracted to for the past six years.

He should wake him. Or maybe… yes, maybe Aziraphale should make some movement, shift himself around, and Crowley might roll away quite naturally, and then he would never know. Would never have to make the mortifying discovery that his body had betrayed him, yet again.

Because it really has. The skinny leg, the bare arm and the tousled hair are not the only things pressed up against Aziraphale. And although he isn’t vain enough to dare to presume that Crowley’s morning wood has anything to do with him specifically, nevertheless the entire situation has caused a… well, a corresponding situation, inside Aziraphale’s tartan pyjamas. And if, in waking, Crowley should somehow brush against it, should put two and two together… should come to _know_ that Aziraphale has been lying here, taking advantage of the way he had moved in his sleep, enjoying it, letting it turn him on…

Clearly something must be done, and yet, nothing can be. Aziraphale lies still.

* * *

The first thing Crowley notices on waking is the warmth. He's almost forgotten how it feels to wake up in the arms of another human. The body he holds feels warm, soft but also firm. It feels heavenly. And it smells pleasantly familiar...

Oh holy fuck.

Crowley has spent _six fucking years_ dreaming of being exactly here: tucked against Aziraphale’s broad chest, waking up in his arms. And now his traitorous body has seen its chance and has taken it, without waiting for permission – without even waiting for him to be conscious to enjoy it, for fuck’s sake. Although – not to put too fine a point on it – his sleeping body has been enjoying it quite enough for both of them, and the evidence is currently pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh.

What can he do? Is there any chance that Aziraphale hasn’t noticed? How heavy a sleeper is he? From his vantage point, with his ear pressed against the other man’s chest, he tries to gauge the depth of his breathing.

Well, there’s nothing else for it, he’ll just have to go for it.

Crowley takes one deep breath then gently pushes off and rolls. His momentum carries him through and he swings to his feet abruptly, before realising that it would have looked so much more natural to have remained in bed, facing the other way, still feigning sleep. Against his will his gaze is drawn to Aziraphale’s face. The blonde’s eyes are open, and he looks almost… guilty?

“Morning angel!” Brazen it out.

Aziraphale stretches, yawns and blinks. “Good gracious, is it really morning already?”

A kindness, Crowley realises. Aziraphale was awake, and he knows full well that just seconds earlier Crowley had been wrapped all around him like a snake, but this way neither of them need acknowledge it. Still, he can’t quite let himself off that easily.

“I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean to… crowd you.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks are burning. What could _he_ possibly have to be embarrassed about? “Don’t worry, don’t worry dear boy. Not a problem.”

Silence stretches between them.

“Do you… are you always so… handsy… with your bedfellows?"

Now Crowley can feel his own blush spreading. Vulnerability startles him into honesty. “I don’t know… I never stay with them long enough to find out.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” Aziraphale looks away, the corners of his mouth turning down.

* * *

Things get even better at breakfast, because fucking Stuart is there again. Perhaps it’s for the best, since Aziraphale clearly doesn’t want to talk to him. And why would he? Crowley can hardly count all the things he’s done wrong this week, from asking Aziraphale to run away with him to moving into his hotel room to groping him in his sleep. No wonder the man needs a break.

Crowley sits in sullen silence, brooding over his black coffee, whilst the other two plan which seminars to attend that day. Turns out that Stuart is interested in _exactly_ the same ones as Aziraphale, once his colleague shares his own plans. What a coincidence! _Coincidence my arse,_ thinks Crowley, who has enough personal experience to be able to recognize a fellow Aziraphale-obsessive at twenty paces.

The morning drags past. None of the speakers can keep his attention for more than a handful of moments. His thoughts flicker between shame and embarrassment at recent events, a sad sort of despair at his prospects of keeping Aziraphale in his future, and a delicious memory of those few moments this morning when he held the angel in his arms.

At lunchtime he spots Aziraphale and Stuart already seated side by side, and on impulse he steers away and sits down alone at another table. He is quite prepared to spend the whole meal in this self-indulgent gloom, but after a few minutes his little oasis is punctured by an American accent.

“Is this seat taken?”

Crowley glances up. The speaker is dark haired and quite beautiful, although her style runs slightly further into what might be termed ‘witchy’ than Crowley really admires in a lunch partner. “Please, be my guest”.

She sits, and immediately attacks. “So, what happened between you and Aziraphale?”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?!”

“Anathema? Anathema Device? Crowley, we’ve been coming to this conference for one full weekend a year for the last ten years – do you honestly not know me?”

The guilty look on Crowley’s face must speak for itself, because she continues, “Hence my question. You’ve been coming here for at least ten years and in the last six of them you’ve never spoken to anyone except your fluffy blond friend over there. Strikes me that you’ve never wanted to speak to anyone else because Aziraphale is something of an obsession with you. To put it mildly. You even call him angel. Every year the guys and I have expected you to come back the next year engaged or married or something. And yet _this_ year, he’s over there all cosy with the new guy and you’re over here with a black cloud over your head.”

Crowley hadn’t realised until now that people’s jaws really did drop.

“So, did you two break up?”

Crowley growls under his breath.

“Sorry? Didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said, we’ve never been together.”

“Oh Crowley. _Still_? Why on Earth not?”

“Well, because… hang on, remind me exactly why this is any of your business?”

“The cosmic alignment of the universe is everyone’s business,” she replies cryptically, and not a little smugly.

Crowley stares blankly at her. Somehow all he can think of to say is, "I don't call him angel." _Not out loud._ "I probably did it once as a... as a joke."

Anathema just stares back at him, a hint of fondness creeping into her smile. "Whatever you say, Romeo." She rolls her eyes. "OK, OK, fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll find out anyway. Never mind your love life then, tell me what’s going on at Heaven! I hear it’s about to go under…?”

Where on Earth is she getting her information from?! "Even if that were true, you must know I couldn’t possibly talk about it. Oh, er, if you don’t mind… I want to get a good seat for the seminar on… umm… _CRM Integration_.”

Anathema leans back in her seat, eyeing him knowingly. “Yes, of course you do. I did hear that the Young Trust are planning to update their CRM next year. Well, please, don’t let me keep you. See you at dinner, Crowley!” She even goes so far as to _wink_ at him! Bloody hell.

* * *

Dinner finally rolls round, and Crowley doesn’t know whether to prioritise avoiding Aziraphale and Stuart, or avoiding Anathema. He also isn’t sure how to avoid either of them without appearing rude, which normally wouldn’t bother him but he has to share a bed with Aziraphale tonight, and Anathema clearly is some sort of witch who can probably hex him, or at least make his life even more unpleasant than it already is.

Eventually he decides that his customary tardiness is his best option. If there are only a couple of seats left, he will just have to pick one of them, won’t he? What a shame if all the ones close to Aziraphale and Anathema are taken.

And of course, God hates Crowley and the plan backfires spectacularly. When he enters the room Anathema, Aziraphale and Stuart are all seated around the same table, right by the door, and Anathema has saved him a seat right next to her. He barely manages to suppress a sigh as he sinks into it.

Each table seats eight, so there is a low hubbub which masks much of what Aziraphale and Stuart have to say to each other on the other side. Anyway, Anathema seems determined not to leave him be for long enough for him to attempt to tune in. She’s very touchy-feely this evening; inappropriately so, he thinks, for someone he has only just met, whatever she might have to say about it. All of her conversation is directed at him, and each point she makes is accompanied by a hand on his arm, or his shoulder, or once even on his chest – he stares hard at that one, until she removes it with a subtle roll of her eyes.

Finally he’s had enough. Grabbing her by the elbow, he rises to his feet and steers them both a few feet away from the table. “What on Earth are you doing?! Are you trying to make him jealous or something?”

“Not just trying… I think it’s working! You can thank me later, _honey._ ”

“Jesus Christ, Anathema – wait, what do you mean, you think it’s working?”

“He’s looking at us an awful lot. And when I touched your chest I heard him have to ask Stuart to repeat himself three times!”

“That’s probably just because you’re making a scene. It’s like how people can’t stop themselves from staring at car crashes.”

She sniffs. “Have it your way.”

“Thank you. Now let’s sit back down and try to finish this meal like ordinary human beings.”

Anathema gives a little huff which lets him know exactly what she thinks of that, but she follows him back to the table obediently and dials back the touching and the long, lingering stares. Enough so that Crowley can begin to discern some of the conversation from the other side of the table.

“I can’t believe it… everyone here said you’d be at Heaven forever. Thought you’d still be there when you drew your pension, you know?”

Aziraphale sighs. “So did I.”

The person on Anathema’s left laughs loudly, and the next words are lost, but the following lines are heard loud and clear.

“ – sending you _where_?!”

“Borneo! Can you believe it? Regional Finance Director! And it comes with a shack on the beach –”

“You’re kidding! I’m thinking _Death in Paradise–”_

More laughter from elsewhere on the table.

“ – couldn’t believe it when he told me, I thought he must be joking. Gabriel’s sense of humour does take some getting used to, but he was deadly serious –”

“I need another glass of wine, Crowley, do you want anything?”

Crowley shushes Anathema rudely, but it’s too late: Aziraphale and Stuart have heard her, and are already placing orders. As she rises and turns to go, Crowley can just hear Stuart’s irritatingly earnest voice rising above the ambient chatter: “Well, Az, I wish you the very best of luck.”

He’s heard enough; more than enough. He has to get away, now, before he has a breakdown over the chicken liver paté. He scrapes back his chair, mumbling something about feeling poorly to the concerned faces that turn his way. At least Anathema is occupied with the drinks. He pushes quickly through the doors and out, then out again, putting more and more distance between himself and the love of his life, until eventually the cool night air hits him. He hasn’t been heading anywhere in particular and now he appears to have left through some sort of service door. Slowly he sinks down to sit leaning against the brickwork of the hotel, fumbling instinctively for a cigarette which he hasn’t carried in fifteen years.

Well. There we go then. The last of the plaster ripped off, all in one go. Aziraphale _is_ leaving Heaven, just not with Crowley. He _can_ countenance the idea of a new job – just not with Crowley. And he won’t be around to pick up his half of this new, platonic friendship which Crowley has been plotting for him, because he isn’t staying in London, or even in the UK.

What on Earth is he doing? Crowley knows Aziraphale. Borneo is the last place he’d ever think of going; England suits him through and through, and Crowley can scarcely imagine him anywhere else. He wouldn’t even consider the possibility unless… unless…

Fucking, fucking _fuck_.

Crowley has done this. He has driven Aziraphale away with his longing looks and his stolen smiles and his stupid, _wretched_ “we can run away together”. Oh, Aziraphale is running away alright – away from Crowley and his stupid, wizened, pathetic little heart which had ever dared to dream that he could be enough for an actual angel –

Crowley does not cry. He is not going to do that. Instead he sits quietly for five minutes, ten, waiting for the thump of his heart to settle and slow. No sense getting all worked up over a few lines overheard in a crowded room – he needs to know for sure. When he’s confident that he can speak without his voice breaking, he slips his phone from the pocket of his slim-fit jeans and calls Gabriel.

“Hey, Crowley, how’s it hanging? I love it when my favourite accountant calls me at home on a Saturday night. How’s the conference?”

Crowley hardly registers a word. “You’re sending Aziraphale into the rainforest?!”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. It’s a good role: Regional Finance Director. He’ll have his own office, a team of 15 people working for him. At it comes with a cabin on the beach –”

“Why?”

“Oh, come on Crowley. I thought _he_ was the naïve one. You’ve always been able to see which way the wind is blowing, in a manner of speaking. Soon Heaven will be history and we’ll all be looking for new jobs. I’d have offered this one to you if he’d turned it down.”

Crowley’s heart sinks even further into his snakeskin boots. “He accepted the role?”

“Well, not officially, not yet. But he looked pretty damn happy, I can tell you. Signing on the dotted line is just a formality.”

“Right…”

“Hey, don’t sound so down! I’ll let you know the minute I hear of anything for you, eh?”

“Thanks Gabe.” Crowley ends the call abruptly and leans back against the wall, staring into space.

So. It’s true.

He isn’t sure how long he sits there, silently brooding, but by the time a waiter steps outside for a smoke and almost trips over him, the sky has darkened. Muttering apologies over his shoulder he heads back inside and straight to the bar. Knowing his luck, if he goes back up to the room he will catch Aziraphale and Stuart in the act. No, Aziraphale knows he has a room key; he wouldn’t do that. But finding the room empty, guessing where Aziraphale has gone, will be just as bad.

He sets himself up in the darkest corner he can find with a packet of crisps and a whiskey, then another, then a couple more. How did things end up like this? He'd had it so good for a while there. No commitment, no complications. He'd been desired by others whilst protecting himself from the difficult, messy act of desiring for himself. How had he ever allowed that to change? What magic had Aziraphale woven to turn him into this pathetic figure?

Just as he begins to feel the alcohol numbing the rough edges of his pain, a voice cuts through the haze. _The_ voice.

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Crowley rolls his eyes vaguely in the direction of the interloper, trying to focus. He may be drunker than he'd realised. “Thought I’d give you and Ssssstuart some alone time. Since we hadn’t worked out a system yet, y’know? Ssssock on the door.”

“Crowley! Don’t be so vulgar. And thanks for all your help there, by the way! I’ve been trying to lose that man all day.”

“You… y’have?”

“Of course I have, he’s as dull as ditchwater. _Yes Aziraphale, no Aziraphale, three bags full Aziraphale –_ ”

“Fancies you.”

Aziraphale pinks. “Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. Are you coming to bed?”

“Ngk.”

“Oh come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” _Don’t I just_ , thinks Crowley. “Can you stand? How much whiskey have you had, you silly man?”

Without waiting for an answer, or a demonstration, Aziraphale tugs Crowley’s arm over his shoulder and loops his own arm around Crowley’s side, before pulling him gently to his feet. Aziraphale bears most of his weight without even seeming to notice, and if Crowley leans into it just a little, who’s to know?

They pause by a vending machine in the corridor outside, and Crowley leans against the wall and tries to focus while Aziraphale procures three bottles of water and a Mars bar. “There you go,” he murmurs. “I’m sure you’ve had nothing but coffee and alcohol all day.” There is a caring, a tenderness to his voice which brings that lump back into Crowley’s throat, and he turns his face away and stares very hard at a swirl in the wallpaper until the feeling fades.

The ride up in the lift is… surreal. Crowley can feel every point at which his own body presses up against Aziraphale’s as if the other man’s touch has branded him, even through his clothes. All the lift walls are mirrored, so wherever he looks he can see the two of them, arm in arm, marching away into the distance, like some grotesque parody of everything he has ever dreamed of. _Never get between two mirrors_ , he vaguely remembers reading. _A bit of your soul gets sucked in._ As if he has any soul left to lose; as if any single part of himself doesn’t already belong to the man beside him.

The lift doors finally part and Crowley allows Aziraphale to steer them down the corridor towards their room. He feels light and floaty, and wonders whether this is due more to the alcohol or the proximity. When they reach their door Crowley fumbles for his key card and drops it, and Aziraphale tuts (fondly?) at him before propping him against the wall and bending to retrieve it. Crowley lets out a little moan at the loss of his touch, and is mortified.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Here we are then, in you pop,” he murmurs, expertly steering Crowley through the doorway and parking him beside the bed. _How many other drunken friends has he done this for?_ Crowley wonders, absently. And then all wonder must cease, all higher thought processes shut down, because Aziraphale presses gently on his shoulders so that he sits down on the bed and then stands in front of him, resting one hand on each of his shoulders.

“May I?” he asks, and Crowley isn’t too sure what he’s asking but manages a noise which he hopes sounds affirmative, because there is nothing on Earth that he would deny his angel at this moment. Aziraphale nods once, as if to reassure himself, and then slowly, gently, he slides Crowley’s jacket from his shoulders and down his arms, and stores it neatly on one of the headless hangers.

“Ngk!”

“Is this… OK? You look… forgive me, but you look as if buttons might be a bit of a stretch for you at the moment.”

And indeed they might. Crowley hasn’t drunk that much, and holds his whiskey well, besides which the presence of Aziraphale has burned the alcohol right out of him, like a flaming cocktail – and yet his brain feels thick and foggy, his movements dull, his vision blurred. It’s like being drugged, except that his drug of choice is a middle-aged accountant in a waistcoat and a bow tie. In the grey half-light of the room everything feels muffled, as if through cotton wool. Why had neither of them turned the lights on?

Crowley clears his throat. “Oh yes, yes, it’s… fine. Good. Kind. Thank you.”

Reassured, Aziraphale’s hands return and now they are… _holy SHIT_ … now they are unbuttoning his waistcoat. Crowley starts to feel almost panicky. How much further is the angel planning to go?

As if in answer, Aziraphale sinks to his knees – _TO HIS KNEES!_ – in front of him and leans forward, then slowly, deftly unlaces Crowley’s boots, one by one. He gently tugs them off, fingers brushing lightly against Crowley’s black-socked feet, and Crowley wonders if this is how it feels just before one properly swoons.

And then, all at once, it is all over. Aziraphale stands, steps back, eyes cast down. “I’ll leave you to… do you think you can manage?” He gestures towards Crowley’s legs, encased in his skinny jeans, and Crowley nods an emphatic yes. Removing those is never pretty. “I’ll just… get myself ready… in the bathroom.” And Aziraphale backs away, grabbing his bag on the way past, and disappears into the en suite.

Crowley makes short work of his trousers and socks and stuffs them back into his bag. Now he is wearing just boxers and a black henley, which is acceptable as sleepwear for those who never think to pack pyjamas. Absently he straightens the covers, neatens the line of water bottles which Aziraphale has considerately placed on his bedside table along with the Mars bar. He can’t imagine eating a thing.

“Time for teeth?” The fluffy angelic head pokes out of the bathroom, followed by the rest of the angel, clad in the same tartan cotton pyjamas as the night before. Before Crowley can coordinate his loose, gangly limbs enough to move, Aziraphale is by his side, guiding him upright and into the bathroom.

Now, all this proximity has been spine-tinglingly awesome, but Crowley does have to draw the line at having his teeth brushed for him. And is it just him, or does Aziraphale look slightly relieved when Crowley reaches for his own toothbrush? There’s sexy and there’s infantilising, and in Crowley’s mind, ne’er the twain shall meet.

Perhaps it is this need to assert his own capability in the matter of oral hygiene which causes him to be a little careless. Maybe it is the residual alcohol, or the way he still tingles from Aziraphale’s touch. More likely it is just one of those things that always seem to happen to Crowley. But for whatever reason, when he turns on the tap he completely misjudges it, and sends water gushing into the sink with the pressure of a fireman’s hose.

The jet hits the white porcelain and ricochets back at them, drenching both their torsos. Crowley’s fumbling hands make it worse before they make it better, accidentally turning the tap further on instead of off, and it’s Aziraphale who eventually steps in to wrestle the spray back under control.

For a moment they just stand, dripping onto the white tiled floor, gazing at each other in shocked dismay. Then the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitches upwards just a fraction and the dam breaks, as the pair of them double over with choking laughter.

“I…I…” Aziraphale starts, when they begin to get themselves under control.

“Breathe, angel, breathe….”

“I… I told you you were drunk!” Aziraphale howls, and it’s enough to set them off again. Crowley roars until his chest hurts, sinking to the bathroom floor, and with the laughter he releases some of the pent-up tension of the last week. It feels… liberating. 

“C’mon, angel,” he says eventually, extending a hand to help Aziraphale to his feet. “Let’s get these wet things off and hang them somewhere to dry.”

Even if he hadn’t been looking at Aziraphale’s face when he spoke, he thinks he would have been able to _feel_ the shift in the atmosphere, like a sudden chill on a summer day. Shutters close over Aziraphale’s face, and he draws his arms protectively across his midriff. _Fucking hell, this is Gabriel's doing. "Lose the gut," and a thousand other tiny daily erosions of the other man's confidence._

Crowley can’t think what to do or to say so he just turns away, thinking that maybe a moment of privacy is the kindest thing he can do for his colleague at present. Out in the bedroom he pulls his soaking wet henley over his head and drapes it across a radiator, then waits, chest bare, to see what Aziraphale will do next.

The other man shuffles out of the bathroom, also topless, and almost flings his wet pyjama top into Crowley’s outstretched hand. Crowley turns away to hang it up, and when he looks back Aziraphale is already nestled under the covers, nothing visible below his chin. Crowley shrugs and climbs in beside him.

“Goodnight, angel.”

For a long time there is no sound at all except for the quiet rustle of their breath. Crowley lies still, wrestling with himself. On the one hand, he has to say something. Aziraphale is obviously languishing under the impression that his body is something to be ashamed of; that it needs to be hidden away out of sight. Crowley should tell him – should give him at least some hint of the fact that Aziraphale is the most gorgeous sight Crowley has ever seen in the whole of his life.

On the other hand, look at all the trouble he’s landed in already by taking things too fast. Aziraphale is moving to the other side of the world because Crowley came on too strong – he can hardly make this better by chatting him up while they are both in the same bed together, half naked.

Before Crowley’s argument with himself can reach any sort of conclusion, he is interrupted by the subject of his thoughts.

“Crowley, are you awake?”

“I’m here, angel.”

“It’s just, I’ve been thinking… about what you said this morning. About never staying around for long enough to fall asleep with someone.”

“Mmmhhmmmnnn?”

“Well, I just wondered… it’s none of my business, of course… how long is it since you last fell asleep in someone’s arms?”

 _Jesus, angel._ “Um. Ngk. It must be… fifteen years.”

“Fifteen _years_?!”

“Yup.” Popping the P is almost a defence mechanism. _Look at me, look how casual I am. Emotions? No, what are they?_

“Why did you stop… doing that?”

Thank God it’s dark in here, too dark to see his blush. Although perhaps that is why this half-light seems to have armed Aziraphale with hitherto unknown reserves of courage. “I… it hurt too much. You let people in, and then…” Crowley can’t continue. This is dangerous; he doesn’t talk about this.

“So ever since then you’ve just… the sex and then…”

“Well, not ever since.” _Why are you still talking, man?_ “I haven’t slept with anybody in five and a half years.” _Shut up shut up SHUT UP!_

“ _Oh!_ ” Aziraphale seems genuinely shocked. “Umm… why?”

“I just,” _oh Christ on a fucking pushbike,_ “I just… stopped wanting… that. From my life.” Crowley can feel the questions building behind Aziraphale’s lips, and knows he has to distract him before he draws out the whole of the truth; a seamstress with a relentless wheel, spinning a garment that was never supposed to be worn in public. _Say something, anything…_

“Angel… you mustn’t believe what Gabriel says, about your body.” _Oh, way to go, Crowley, bring him back to here again, you crass, insensitive idiot._

Aziraphale stiffens. “I’d rather not talk about it, actually.”

_You’ve put your foot in it now. Make it better! Quick!_

“He’s a complete arse, you must know that. None of his opinions are worth shit –”

The bedsheets rustle; Aziraphale is moving, turning towards him. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s got a point really, hasn’t he? I could certainly stand to lose a few pounds.”

“No! You don’t need to change for anybody angel, and least of all for that wankstain.”

“Yes, but Crowley… this is very kind of you to say, but… let’s be honest here… those people who you used to jump into bed with, albeit very briefly –”

“Not _that_ briefly,” cuts in Crowley, offended.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you have the prowess and the stamina of a… oh, I don’t know, that’s hardly the point, is it? What I mean is…”

“What?”

“Tell me the truth, Crowley. You’re a handsome man, you must have your pick at these… _clubs_ and things. Be honest with me: did any of the men you went home with ever look… like this? Like me?”

In the end, it’s no choice at all. Crowley stepped off the cliff long ago; has been plummeting to earth for half his life. It’s too late to play it safe now.

“You want the truth, angel?” Crowley takes a deep breath, quietly lets it go. “No. That’s the truth. None of them ever looked like you. Not even close.” He pauses, closes his eyes. Now or never. He speaks quietly, reverentially. “I was never that lucky.”

He hears the tiny half-sob, the sharp intake of breath. When he opens his eyes Aziraphale is closer than he expected, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His shoulders shake, just the tiniest bit; in the silvery light Crowley watches one solitary tear track down his friend’s cheek.

“Angel. You can say no, but… can I hold you?”

It wouldn’t be allowed tomorrow, but in the safe, quiet darkness of this neutral ground, the rules feel different. Slowly, so slowly, Aziraphale turns onto his side, facing away from Crowley, and the two of them shuffle together until Aziraphale’s bare back is pressed against Crowley’s bare chest. Crowley snakes an arm around him, burying his nose in Aziraphale’s shoulder. There is no awkwardness; they fit together perfectly.

“Angel, you must know… you _must_ know by now how gorgeous I think you are.”

Aziraphale shakes his head just slightly, as if in denial, and Crowley doesn’t push it. Instead he tries to let his love bleed through the warmth of his hands, his arms, his chest, his legs; whispers it silently into breaths which ghost out over the curls at the base of Aziraphale’s scalp. _I’ve got you. I want you. You’re enough. You’re perfect. You’re safe. If you must go, first take what you need from me._

They sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up on Wednesday!
> 
> Lurk with me on Twitter: [@ElderlySardine](https://twitter.com/ElderlySardine?s=09)


	9. On Religion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale have a religious experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is why I would never dare start posting a fic until I've finished writing it. I'm in awe of people who can. 
> 
> For the longest time I was happily writing oblivious and apparently unrequited pining, but with no idea of where it was going or how I was going to resolve it. And then suddenly a Plot arrived in my head, more or less fully formed, and I had to go back and rewrite whole chunks of the earlier chapters to pretend that had been my aim all along. 
> 
> So this chapter is the one in which most of the plot seemed to want to end up, and as a result the pining is mostly on hold.

**Sunday**

Aziraphale had never dared to imagine that he might one day wake up in Crowley’s arms. That it might happen two days in a row defies any and all reasonable explanation.

At some point in the night they had shifted from their starting positions, and now they are arranged exactly as they had been the previous morning: Aziraphale on his back, with Crowley’s arms and legs looped around his torso. Aziraphale tells himself that he hasn’t moved because he is so tired, after their late night. It’s nothing to do with how _right_ this feels.

Gradually, piece by piece, last night’s discussions begin to come back to him. Crowley had... said some things. Aziraphale's heart gives a funny, fluttery swoop as he remembers them. 

_Can I hold you?_

_You don't need to change for anyone._

_Angel, you must know... you must know..._

He can't. He can't complete the thought, even in the privacy of his own head. All those words, those impossible words, spoken in Crowley's beloved voice - to soothe him, to talk him down from a ledge, because he had taken his top off and had a meltdown. What a petty little drama queen. 

Crowley wasn't looking at him. Nobody wanted to look at him. All he'd needed to do was to hand over his wet top, get quickly into bed and say no more about it. But no, he'd let his emotions get the better of him. He had actually cried. And Crowley, much as he likes to pretend otherwise, is a kind man. He probably hadn't known what to do, how to handle the prima donna he found himself unexpectedly in bed with. 

Aziraphale hadn’t intended to fish for compliments, but he had done so. How else could Crowley have responded? He’d started his pity party in the dark, half naked in a bed with a man with looks anyone would die for, and Crowley… Crowley was too kind to have responded any other way. Of course he didn’t mean it. _Of course_ he didn’t. He probably meant that Aziraphale had a beautiful soul, or some other such claptrap. Aziraphale pushes the thought away.

* * *

Sunday is always a bit of a nothingy day at the conference. A small but noticeable minority of the assembled accountants have snuck away by this stage, the younger ones to shop in nearby Oxford and the elder to salvage a little of the weekend to spend with their kids at home. The organisers know this, and don’t try to fight it – all of the most popular sessions are scheduled for the Saturday. On Sunday the groups are smaller, the panellists more laid back, the stall holders more inclined to distribute freebies.

Most of the day’s activities are over with by 4pm, so the third night’s accommodation is only really of use to those with a long way to travel, who don’t wish to begin their journeys until the following morning. The organisers are canny, however, and build all three nights into a package deal, and so there always remains a small hardcore of people who recognise that their organisation has paid for their room for three nights and are damn well going to sleep in it for three nights, thank you very much.

This evening, they are gathered around the bar.

“What I don’t get,” bellows Anathema, slightly tipsy, before being shushed back down to normal levels. “What I don’t get, is, is, is, why people do this, if they don’t want to.”

“Do what?” enquires Norman, sleepily.

“This. _THIS_. This job. Why? You spend _so much_ of your life at work. Imagine all those hours, added up and laid out. Bet they’d reach from here to the moon.”

“The _hours_ would reach to the moon?”

“Or is it the length of a double decker bus? Or six football pitches? I can’t remember, I’m drunk. Point is, you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it. Find something else.”

“Who doesn’t like it?” Raven Sable challenges. “Best job in the world.”

“No offence, mate, but you’re off your trolley,” comments Norman, peaceably. “I wanted to be a graphic designer. Design an LP for the Rolling Stones. But my careers advisor hadn’t heard of them.”

“So, Norman. This is exactly what I mean. What’s stopping you from doing that right now?”

Norman shrugs. “They’ve only put out two albums this century. I think I’d struggle to make ends meet.”

“Uh! You guys are so… blinkerereded. Aziraphale. C’mon Az! You do this job because you love it, right? You must, you’ve been with Heaven since 1656.”

“Charming! But yes, of course I… of course I…” Aziraphale trails off. Does he love it? _Does he?_ “It’s all I’ve ever known. All I’m qualified for.”

“Yeah, and the qualification’s no walk in the park, is it?” Crowley puts in. He isn’t drinking tonight, claiming only just to have recovered from the night before. Aziraphale suspects he’s just trying to give himself a better chance of keeping his wandering hands under control tonight. “You want to get your money’s worth after all that. Mine was three years of my life and hundreds of pounds, and that was _years_ ago.” He side-eyes Anathema. “Early eighteenth century, at least.”

“But that’s just it, don’t you see?” Anathema flails excitedly, and Norman grabs protectively for his drink. “You older guys –” she pushes on through a chorus of jeers, “your qualifications are a fully depreciated asset! You’ve been receiving the benefits of them for years. The premium on your earnings must have cancelled out the outlay on the studying by now. Anything you do now is just a freebie, a bonus. Does your work _feel_ like a bonus, guys? Az, when you get up in the morning, do you feel glad to be going to work?”

Aziraphale feels his cheeks heat. At least he can answer this one honestly, even if he knows Anathema will not interpret it in the same way that he means it. His eyes flick to Crowley, the real reason why he is pleased to wake up from Monday to Friday, and he quickly drags them away. “Yes, I do.”

“Good man!”

“Well, sir, then I salute you,” puts in Norman. “But pray do tell us: what would you be, if you were barred from accountancy tomorrow?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to reply that he has never thought about it, but the answer forms in his head before the words can leave his mouth. “I’d have a secondhand bookshop.”

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting; laughter, maybe, or disbelief. Instead the assembled group seem to consider him, in slightly tipsy silence, before almost as one they nod and assimilate this into their mental catalogues.

Suddenly a new voice speaks up.

“I asked your boss that once.”

“I’m… I’m sorry?”

“You work for Heaven for Everyone, right? Gabriel Messenger? Tall, American, good looking, well-tailored, bit of a twat?”

“Can see that you've met him,” Crowley puts in, dryly.

“I worked with him a few years ago.” The speaker is a slim woman dressed (rather impractically) in a well-fitting white suit. She looks vaguely familiar.

“Michael!” crows Anathema. “Of course you did, of course. You were a consultant with… oh, remind me what your firm’s called, again?”

“NFP Archangels. Seemed fitting, at the time, Archangels being called in to help with a merger between Heaven and Hell.”

“HELP,” mutters Crowley, under his breath, in the tone of one who doesn’t expect to be heard or acknowledged. Then slightly louder, “So what did our illustrious leader have to say for himself?”

“Oh, he had big plans. Mostly things that he wanted to own, not things that he wanted to do or be. He wanted a swimming pool, a private plane, a mansion in LA. I told him, if he wanted that lifestyle, he’d better either win the pools or rob a bank. He was all hot air though. Knew where he wanted to be but hadn’t the slightest plan to get himself there.”

“If those are your life goals, working for a charity is an odd way to go about achieving them,” muses Crowley.

“Oh, I think he just lacks imagination,” puts in Aziraphale. “Those are things which show that you’ve made it, so he thinks he wants them. He hasn’t given any thought to the actual human experiences involved.” But even as he speaks he can feel the cogs whirring in his brain. Something Michael just said has jogged something in his memory. He sits silently, careful not to reach for the elusive thought, waiting for it to emerge on its own. While he waits he considers Gabriel, running through some recent conversations in his head.

_Oh my God._

The final piece clicks into place and Aziraphale jumps to his feet, startling his colleagues and finally parting Norman from his precious pint, now upended into Anathema’s lap. “That’s _IT_! I’m so sorry, my friends, but I’m afraid I have to go. I have to get back to London. Right now! There’s not a moment to lose!”

“Steady on, old bean,” interjects Norman, miserably. “That was a perfectly good pint and I can’t put them on expenses, you know.”

“And how are you going to get to London now, anyway?” asks Sable. “You learnt to drive since last year? Cos there won’t be any trains at this time on a Sunday night.”

“Oh… oh, yes, I…” Aziraphale begins to sink back down into his seat, embarrassed, and passes Crowley travelling in the opposite direction.

“C’mon angel. God knows what this is about, but I’ll drive you back to London tonight. These guys are no fun when I’m sober anyway.”

* * *

Aziraphale is remembering why he doesn’t let Crowley drive him around.

“Watch out for that pedestrian!”

“She’s on the street, she knows the risk she’s taking!” But Crowley eases off nevertheless, and Aziraphale grips the dashboard a little less tightly.

“So,” Crowley begins, as they barrel down the darkened lanes of Oxfordshire. “I guess pretty soon, we’ll be saying goodbye to each other.”

“Ah, yes, well… actually, I was rather hoping you might continue to keep me company on tonight’s little adventure. I think I might need the back-up. Or a witness,” he adds darkly.

Crowley splutters. “I… unh… yeah… of course I’ll stick around as long as you need me, angel, but that wasn’t what I meant. I meant in the more… general… sense. Seems we won’t be working together much longer.”

 _Oh_.

He has been expecting it, of course he has. People like Crowley (but was there anyone, truly, who could be said to be _like Crowley_?) didn’t spend their time with people like Aziraphale voluntarily. He’s always known that once Crowley isn’t being paid to spend time with him, he will disappear. But he hadn’t realised until now that Crowley would announce or address it quite so starkly. They’d been close colleagues for six years, kissed once, and slept two nights in each other’s arms. He’d thought at the very least there would be a stated intention to keep in touch; maybe a few evenings spent together in the _Eden_ before Crowley allowed himself to drift away.

Maybe it’s better this way. Rip off the plaster.

“No, I suppose not. What will you do? Will you go to Young’s?”

“I don’t know.” Crowley sighs. “What Anathema was saying earlier… I don’t know if this is really what I want to do with my life.”

“What do you want to do?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I can assure you I shall not. If you didn’t laugh at my old bookshop, I can certainly manage not to laugh at your dream, my dear.”

“Well, I… I want to work with plants.”

Aziraphale is so determined not to laugh that he almost fails to react at all. “Plants?”

“Yeah, I… it’s stupid I know, but… I’d like to have a garden. A vegetable patch. Maybe I could sell through one of those little farm shops you see by the side of the road…” He sounds a little uncertain, and Aziraphale has to admit to himself that he cannot imagine anyone more unlikely to encounter at a rural roadside farm shop than Anthony J Crowley.

“Well, my dear, maybe you should do it.”

“From my flat in Mayfair?”

“Sell your flat. Use the money to buy yourself a smallholding on the south coast. Grow your vegetables.”

Crowley smiles sadly. “Maybe I will. After you’ve gone.”

That one hurts a bit. Is Aziraphale’s presence really so dampening to Crowley’s dreams?

Before he can object, Crowley speaks again. “Angel… what did you mean, earlier, about needing back-up? Or a witness? Where are we going?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know where we’ll end up, but the first place we’re going, my dear, is the office.”

“You want to go to work now?! Angel, it’s after midnight!”

“That’s ok, I know the alarm codes,” replies Aziraphale, unpeturbed.

The M40 crosses the M25, always occupied whatever the hour, and melts into the A40, carrying them into central London. The two sit in silence now, gazing out into the night, and Aziraphale can’t help but wonder whether Crowley also recalls the last time they were alone together in the office after hours.

* * *

“I thought you said you knew the codes!”

“I do! It’s just a bit harder in the dark! Hold the light steady!”

“Why are we… look, just put the proper light on!” Crowley slaps the flat of his hand against the wall and the vestibule of Heaven is flooded with light. Aziraphale snorts with derision but takes advantage of the sudden illumination to punch in the alarm code. The aggressive beeping stops, and not a moment too soon for Crowley.

“Turn it off again, quickly! We’re supposed to be undercover!”

Crowley obediently plunges them back into darkness. “I’d like to see you stay undercover with the alarm blaring its head off. Perhaps it would help me to get on board with the plan, angel, and with the need for secrecy, if you would just give me some sort of clue as to what on Earth we’re doing here?”

Aziraphale turns to him, and even in the grey light of the foyer Crowley can see the excited gleam in his eyes. “I’ve worked it out, Crowley.”

“Worked what out?”

“All of it. I know how we can get Heaven’s money back.”

“You what, Miss Marple?”

But Aziraphale is off down the corridor, heading for their shared office by the looks of it, and all Crowley can do is to trail helplessly in his wake.

* * *

“Oh… fiddlesticks!”

“Something wrong, angel?”

“Forgot my password for the HR system. I don’t know why the cursed thing makes you change your password _weekly._ Completely unnecessary.”

“Oh, that was actually me… I was pissed off with Sandy in HR so I bribed one of the guys in IT to make the change. It was pretty funny actually.” He catches sight of Aziraphale’s expression. “Or… not so funny?”

“Crowley, did you forget that I have to access that same system on a regular basis to prepare the payroll?”

“Um. Yes.” Quick change of subject needed. “Uh, am I going to regret it if I let you log on as me instead?”

“There are many things you may soon have cause to regret, Crowley, but that shall not be one of them. Quickly now, we don’t have all night.”

“Alright, alright… here we go, we’re in. Go for it.”

Aziraphale types in his usual style, at high speed but using only the index fingers of each hand, whilst Crowley hops anxiously from foot to foot. In a bid to distract himself he gazes around the darkened office, and his eyes come to rest on that corner by the photocopier which has, implausibly, formed the backdrop to most of his sexual fantasies for the last three years. Does Aziraphale also still remember what happened the last time they were alone together in the office after hours?

“Ah!”

“Found something?”

Aziraphale swivels round in his chair to face Crowley. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Definitely start with the good news.”

“Well, the good news is that now I’m more sure than ever that I am right.”

“That’s hardly news, angel. What’s the bad news?”

“Oh, do be quiet, dear. The bad news is I can’t prove it.” Aziraphale does look crestfallen, and it’s one o’clock in the morning and Crowley is getting _really fed up_ with all this secrecy.

“Aziraphale, please, just tell me what’s going on!”

The other man turns his wide hazel eyes on Crowley sadly. “We need to go to Gabriel’s house. Right now. That’s why we’re here: I needed to get his address from the HR database. But the address on his account is in the US. The log shows he updated it last year. But it doesn’t show what it was before that. And since we know he doesn’t commute in from St Louis every day… we don’t know how to find him.”

“Is that all? Angel, why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could have driven us straight there, instead of larking about here like an inept pair of cat burglars–“

“You know where Gabriel lives?!”

“Well… yeah.”

“ _HOW?”_

“Don’t look at me like that. It was after the Christmas party, d’you remember? Actually no, you’d left by then. He was utterly sloshed–”

“Crowley, for the love of God don’t tell me you ended up… _going home_ with Gabriel.”

“What? _No!”_ Crowley takes a moment to look suitably aghast. “Jesus, angel, give me some credit.”

“My apologies.” Aziraphale’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, but Crowley can see the laughter trapped behind it. “Please continue.”

“Well, like I said, he was completely plastered, had no chance of getting home on his own. We had trouble finding a cabbie who would take him – and when we did, we had to pay him double. Newt and I poured the old soak into the car and the Gabe shouted out his address.”

“And you remember that now? It’s May!”

“Well.” Crowley has the grace to look embarrassed. “It had been a hard day… Gabe had been a bit of a prick… I was out of pocket for the bloody taxi and no chance of ever getting that back. I may have… done something.”

Aziraphale puts on his most school-masterly face. “What did you do?”

“Ahpth’m’nnamlglst.”

“In English, please, my dear.”

“I put him on some mailing lists, ok? Double glazing… conservatories… loft conversions… Payment Protection Insurance… catalogues… telephone directories… I mean, do you know how hard it is to get hold of an actual, honest to God paper telephone directory these days? I even got him an Argos catalogue!”

“You are a true craftsman, my dear fellow.” Aziraphale is clearly trying, and failing, to disapprove.

“Anyway, the point is I know exactly where he lives. He has a flat in Camden. Let’s go.”

* * *

“Are you sure this is the place?”

Crowley steps back and looks around. They’re on a residential street on the outskirts of Camden. The houses here are all at least three stories high, with steps leading down to a basement, and judging by the number of wheelie bins outside the vast majority of them have been converted into flats. The top bell on this one is labelled MESSENGER in Gabriel’s distinctive copperplate handwriting.

“Definitely the place.”

“I just thought Gabriel would live somewhere a little… posher. He must be able to afford to do better than this.”

“Are you kidding? Camden’s a property hotspot. And Amy Winehouse used to live on the next street over.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Can we get on?”

“Right, yes.” Aziraphale pauses. “I don’t suppose you have anything… umm… threatening? In your car?”

“What, like a weapon?”

“Well… yes.”

“I could grab the starting handle, or the tyre iron. What _is_ this all about, angel? Are you really not going to tell me?”

“Don’t worry, forget I mentioned it. You know how Gabriel always makes me nervous. Come on.” And Aziraphale takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, stands up straight and presses his finger down hard on the bell labelled MESSENGER.

“Uh… angel…” Crowley puts in after a while. “I think you’re supposed to take your finger off the buzzer to give him a chance to answer it.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

After about half a minute, a tinny voice is heard through the speaker.

“Is there someone there?” Gabriel sounds annoyed, perhaps unsurprisingly.

Aziraphale removes his finger for just long enough to speak. “Good,” he checks his watch, “morning, Gabriel. This is Aziraphale Fell and Anthony Crowley. May we come up, please? We need to speak with you on a matter of great importance.”

“Aziraphale? What… you… get off the bell! Whatever this is, it’ll have to wait til morning. _Proper_ morning! Good grief!”

Aziraphale’s voice is still politeness personified. “I’m afraid this matter is most pressing, Gabriel, and it cannot wait a moment longer. I also wished to extend to you the courtesy of discussing it discreetly, within your own home, although I have to concede that the longer we are kept on the doorstep, the more danger that we will cause a scene in front of your neighbours. This would, of course, be most regrettable.” He reapplies his finger to the bell.

“Go away! I’ll call the police!”

“Excellent. That shall save me the trouble of calling them myself. We’ll just wait here until they arrive, shall we?”

For one long moment, the only sound is the distant buzzer on the top floor. Crowley, who has been growing ever more alarmed during this exchange, wonders if there can be even a shadow of a chance that Aziraphale is not bluffing. Then there is a click, and Aziraphale removes his finger from the buzzer and pushes open the door.

It’s dark inside, and the hallway is littered with the detritus of shared living spaces everywhere: bicycles, pizza leaflets and abandoned shoes. Crowley follows Aziraphale up the first flight of stairs, and walks right into him when he stops suddenly at the door on the first landing.

“What are you doing, angel?” hisses Crowley. “It’s the top floor!” His senses still tingle from the unexpected touch, even through multiple layers of clothing.

Aziraphale’s eyes meet Crowley’s, and he puts one finger to his lips and hisses back "Witnesses!". _Fucking hell_ , he’s adorable when he tries out subterfuge.

Then he raps hard on the door in front of him.

“What the…?”

“Sssshhhh!”

The door cracks open just a few centimetres, and a gruff voice asks, “What is this?”

“Good morning, sir. I’m Aziraphale Fell and this is my colleague, Anthony Crowley. We are looking for Gabriel Messenger?”

“Never ‘eard of ‘im.” The door slams shut.

Not looking at all put out, Aziraphale repeats the experiment on the next landing. The response here is less polite, but if anything Aziraphale looks even more pleased. Finally they crest the final flight of stairs and reach the top landing. The door is open, and their boss stands at the threshold with a face like thunder. _Oh well_ , Crowley thinks. _At least we were both leaving anyway._

“Gentlemen” says Gabriel, in a tone which leaves them in no doubt that the description is used sarcastically. “If you have quite finished waking my neighbours, please do come in.”

Finally Aziraphale’s courage seems to falter, but it’s clear that they have passed the point of no return now. It is two in the morning and they have driven through the night, broken into the office, hacked the personnel database and threatened their superior, and now they are stood outside his flat, under his strong glare. They can’t give up now. Without really knowing what he is doing, Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s hand and entwines their fingers together. 

Gabriel scoffs and turns away from the doorway, heading back into his flat. “How sweet.”

But Crowley gives a gentle squeeze, and after a moment Aziraphale’s fingers squeeze back as the pair follow Gabriel inside, never letting go.

* * *

Gabriel’s home décor is as trendy and minimalist as it is in his office. One long, low coffee table forms the centrepiece of the room, clear except for a well-used ashtray. _I didn’t know Gabriel smoked,_ thinks Crowley. _He kept that quiet. Guess there’s no chance he’ll offer me one._ Aziraphale and Crowley perch themselves on hard chairs which appear to be made from one single piece of bent plastic. There is also a bean bag topped with a fluffy white cushion, and Crowley wonders how the dynamic of the conversation will be affected if Gabriel decides to sit on it, but instead he pulls out a high sided stool which a moment before had looked like part of the kitchen island.

“So. Boys. Would you care to explain what brings you to my house in the middle of a Sunday night? In the hours when no-one should be abroad, in a manner of speaking? What made you need to see me so badly that it couldn’t wait until we all meet in the office in… just over six hours?”

Crowley is keen to hear this too.

“Well, actually, Gabriel… it’s not you we’re here to see.”

Is it just Crowley’s imagination, or do Gabriel’s knuckles tighten on the breakfast bar?

“I live alone.”

“Yes, so you’ve always said, but it’s not actually true, is it?” Aziraphale takes a deep, steadying breath, then calls out, “Colin!”

_Colin? Who the fuck is–_

Before Crowley can complete the thought, the fluffy white cushion on top of the beanbag gets up, shakes itself and trots over to Aziraphale, then produces a tiny pink tongue and proceeds to lick his fingers. A thought stirs in the back of Crowley’s mind.

“Oh, this is just too much! Is this a set-up? Are there hidden cameras? Am I on TV? You waltz in here at two o’clock in the fucking morning and say you’ve come to see my _dog_?”

“But he’s not yours, though, is he?”

 _Gabriel doesn’t smoke_ , puts in Crowley’s mind, helpfully.

“I was thinking, earlier,” continues Aziraphale calmly, “about verbal tics. About how you can, um, catch them, as it were, from people you spend a lot of time with. _In a manner of speaking._ ”

“You.. you… I…” Gabriel’s mouth opens and closes like a goldfish.

“There are three things, are there not, Crowley, that everyone knows about the trustee formerly known as God? Would you care to elaborate, please?”

Crowley’s mind, finally, is joining the dots. “She is addicted to Cuban cigars…”

Aziraphale points theatrically at the ashtray on the table.

“She overuses the phrase ‘in a manner of speaking’…”

He extends a hand towards Gabriel, palm outstretched.

“…And she owns a small dog named Colin.”

“Yip,” puts in Colin, with natural comic timing.

“Are you still going to deny the existence of God, Gabriel? Because _I_ am a believer.”

When did Aziraphale get this bloody _cool?!_

Gabriel’s mouth opens again, but the next voice comes from behind them.

“I can see that there is no point in denying anything now.”

Turning, Crowley sees a woman dressed in white from head to toe; a long, flowing white, with long, flowing blonde hair falling about her face in natural waves.

“You are indeed in the presence of God.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up on Saturday - which will also be the last proper chapter of this fic! Short epilogue to follow on Sunday.
> 
> Lurk with me on Twitter: [@ElderlySardine](https://twitter.com/ElderlySardine?s=09)


	10. Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many things are cleared up, and we finally, finally earn our rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is: the happy ending. 
> 
> Before I started posting I thought there was a fair chance this fic would just sink without trace, and I can't tell you how happy it made me to know people were reading and enjoying it. Thank you all for getting this far, and most especially thank you to the people who commented all the way through, including the one awesome person who commented on Every Single Chapter. This is for you x

**Monday**

“So,” God says, “now that you’ve been so clever and worked it out, I suppose you want to hear the rest?”

“Darling, are you sure–” begins Gabriel, looking panicked.

“I hardly think it makes a difference now.” She draws in a deep breath. “But first, tell me… how did you know I would be here?”

Gabriel puffs himself up, as if he is proud of them. It would feel implausible if he weren’t, well, Gabriel. “Well, I always told you Crowley here was something special–”

“I think I’d rather like to hear our guests speak for themselves, if it’s all the same to you my dear.”

Gabriel looks put out, but doesn’t argue. God turns beautiful grey eyes on the pair of them, their hands still linked between their uncomfortable designer chairs. Crowley feels as if she can see all the way through to his soul.

“It wasn’t me,” he admits, suddenly. “Gabe, you’ve always done Aziraphale down but this was all him. He’s smarter than you and smarter than me – no, angel, it’s true!”

“Yes… I can see that your angel is indeed something very special.”

Aziraphale cringes in embarrassment and Crowley kicks himself and vows to hold his tongue from now on.

“So, little angel. Why don’t you tell us the story of how you found God?”

Aziraphale squares his shoulders as he turns to face her. “Well… it was a bit of a gamble, really.”

“Oh, come now. Don’t be shy. Something gave you the confidence to demand entry to your boss’s flat in the early hours of the morning. What was it?”

“To start with it was just that phrase. In a manner of speaking. I’d started to notice that Gabriel used it more and more, sometimes in contexts that didn’t really fit. It stuck out a bit. And I thought, what a coincidence, that he should be the second person associated with Heaven to develop that particular little verbal tic. And then I thought, well, probably not a coincidence. It’s well known that those who spend a lot of time together often share speech patterns; over time, they tend to come to sound more like each other. But you’d been gone for a year. And I tried to remember whether Gabriel had used that phrase before you’d left, and I didn’t think so, but that was hardly conclusive. I just filed it away at the back of my mind, as something unexplained.”

“Go on.”

“Then there was something Michael said at the conference today. She had spoken to Gabriel about his hopes and dreams for the future, and his dreams were expensive. She said he’d need to rob a bank, because he’d never get that sort of money from a charity. And I suddenly thought about someone who did get that sort of money from a charity. From our charity.”

“And?”

“And… that was it.”

“That was _it_?!” This time it is Crowley who interjects, inadvertently dropping Aziraphale’s hand in disbelief. “You brought us round here in the middle of the night on the basis of that?! No wonder you weren’t ready to tell me what was going on! It was pure speculation!”

“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, yes you were,” God muses. “And once you were in here, of course, you found other things to confirm it. Yes, little angel, you are indeed clever, and also very brave, and perhaps a little lucky. All very praiseworthy qualities. I believe you do deserve to hear the full story.”

God moves round to stand in front of them. As she passes the beanbag Crowley entertains the mad thought that she might sit down – some part of reality would probably fracture at the juxtaposition of those two entities. But instead Colin, apparently satisfied that Aziraphale’s fingers are clean, resumes his interrupted nap in his previous spot.

“We are very much in love,” begins Gabriel, rather pompously, and the divine brow creases just slightly.

“Yes, thank you Gabriel. It is true, as you have surmised, that Gabriel and I entered into a relationship about eighteen months ago. I had been looking to leave Heaven. I had been a trustee for more than three decades, but after the merger everything changed. The dynamic changed. The power balance. People no longer regarded my advice. I, who had built the charity from nothing, was cast out!” She wipes her eyes, slightly melodramatically in Crowley’s opinion.

“I decided that if I had to go, I would take what I was owed. Heaven was nothing without me! If anything, £1.5m was an underestimation of the amount I brought in. I could have taken twice as much!”

“You’d’ve been lucky to find it in Heaven’s coffers,” murmurs Crowley, before being silenced by a sideways glance from Aziraphale.

“I let Gabriel in on my plan. He was able to get hold of a specimen of Lucy’s signature for me to copy, and he knew when the time was right – when that rather wet-looking kid would be in the office alone, just before his holiday. Gave him a ton of jobs, didn’t you, darling, to make sure he was the last one out that day?” She smiles fondly at Gabriel, who beams proudly back. Crowley feels a little nauseous.

“And once the deed was done, I just had to disappear. No problems there. I’d already dispensed with my old identity and bought a new one. No-one ever remembers my name. It’s one of the advantages of going by such an audacious nickname. Colin and I disappeared off to Scotland for three months. By the time we returned, it was safe. I changed my hair, we moved in here and I never looked back.”

“Why here? Why not… a foreign beach somewhere?”

“£1.5m doesn’t get you as far as you imagine, little angel. We needed more.”

“And how were you planning to get it?”

“Why, we were planning to bleed Heaven dry. It wouldn’t have been enough, of course, but it would have felt good.”

Aziraphale is looking as sick as Crowley feels. Crowley fills the silence. “You… you have been killing Heaven… deliberately?”

“Running it into the ground,” says Gabriel smugly.

“But how is that going to bring you any more money?”

This time it is Aziraphale who answers. “I’m guessing… you planned to set up a fake charity with similar aims, and get yourself agreed as the beneficiary when Heaven gets wound up.”

“Very clever!” God claps her hands in delight. “I really do like your little angel, Mr Crowley. I completely understand what you see in him. There was just one problem. Adam Young was beginning to smell a rat.”

“He’s been sniffing around for a while,” puts in Gabriel. I threw you into his path, Crowley, hoping to put him off the scent. I thought if he thought he was getting one over on me – poaching my staff – he might back off and not uncover the real issue.”

“And it would have worked, too, sweetheart,” soothes God. “It was masterful. Sending Crowley away to a competitor and Aziraphale to the other side of the world would have ensured very little scrutiny of our deal.”

“And yet… here we are.” Aziraphale squares his shoulders bravely, and Crowley summons up his own reserves of bravery and reaches for his hand again. “What do you plan to do now?”

“Well, my little angel. You have proved yourself to be both intelligent and resourceful. My first plan is to hear what _you_ plan to do now.”

 _You and me both_ , thinks Crowley.

“My plan,” announces Aziraphale calmly, “is to blackmail you.”

* * *

"In a manner of speaking,” muses Crowley, “that could have gone a lot worse.”

“I can’t believe they went along with it!” Aziraphale crows, drunk on adrenaline and euphoria. “Do you really think they’ll follow through?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How can you sound so certain?”

“Because of this.” Crowley takes one hand off the wheel and pulls his mobile from his pocket. “I was recording the whole thing, and I flashed it at Gabe on the way out. If the money’s not back by tomorrow he gets a copy, just to help to jog his memory. If it’s not back by Wednesday, and if Gabe’s resignation letter isn’t on Lucy’s desk by then too, then this recording goes straight to the police.”

“You’re amazing, Crowley!”

Crowley gapes at him. "Me! This was all you."

"I couldn't have done it without you." Aziraphale feels lightheaded, and realises that an unwise level of honesty is creeping into the conversation.

Fortunately for him, Crowley seems unable to accept a compliment. “You're the amazing one, not me. Exhausted, is what I am.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. It must be…”

“Don’t apologise, it was worth it. It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

They drive on in silence for a moment.

“You think the old place is saved then?”

“For the moment, yes. It’s about two years’ running costs; no small charity ever really manages to look further ahead than that, angel, you know that.” Crowley yawns.

“You are tired. Just go straight back to yours, Crowley, I can walk from there.”

“With all your luggage, angel?” There is a pause. “Look, we were going to share a bed at the hotel tonight anyway. Would it be any different if you just came back to mine? No-one would ever know. Then we could get a few hours’ kip.”

Aziraphale knows he ought to object, to politely decline, to deny himself again. But somehow, today of all days, he finds that he can’t. Soon enough they will part for good, Crowley has made that clear. Already once tonight he has sacrificed a night in Crowley’s arms in order to save the charity he loves. Now the universe has rewarded him with another chance to feel that slender warmth wrapped around him, to bury his nose in Crowley’s hair and pretend that they belong to each other. The adrenaline high is fading fast, and he does not have the strength anymore to resist the man he loves. Silently, he nods his assent.

* * *

Crowley lives in a large, flashy building in Mayfair. It is probably very impressive to those who have had more sleep than Aziraphale. They head up in silence, Aziraphale trailing Crowley down the corridors and in through the front door. He feels numb, and wishes vaguely that Crowley would take his hand again, tell him what to do.

The door swings open. “It’s all… concrete!”

“Oh, uh, yeah. You don’t like it? I don’t really like it, to be honest. It just seemed like… something I ought to want.”

“As long as there’s a bed in here, I don’t care,” reassures Aziraphale, blushing as he hears his own words.

Crowley rummages inside a wardrobe which until a moment ago had appeared to be just a section of grey wall, and returns with one pair of black silk pyjamas, some loose fitting grey trousers and a baggy t-shirt. He hands the latter items to Aziraphale. Their hands brush, just for a moment, and Aziraphale feels sparks. _Will that ever stop happening?_

 _It will when you never see each other again_ , he reminds himself darkly. _When your days trudge along, at a rejuvenated Heaven but without the man who makes it all worthwhile._

_Oh, pull yourself together! Stop being so melodramatic. Can't you just enjoy this? Could you have imagined three days ago that you would be here, alone with Crowley in his flat, about to climb into bed with him? Buck up._

Crowley deposits him at the door to a swish bathroom, and Aziraphale changes into his impromptu sleepwear and brushes his teeth. When he emerges, he drifts through the concrete space as if in a dream until he finds Crowley already occupying half of an enormous bed, clad, of course, in black silk sheets, because when Crowley had found his aesthetic he had really committed. The other man lifts the edge of the duvet enticingly, and Aziraphale slides in beside him. Funny, this is only the third night they’ve spent together, and yet it feels so natural – they could have been together for thousands of years.

“Well, we must have at least… three and a half hours until we need to get up for work. We’ll leave separately and I’ll see you in the office, ok, angel?”

Aziraphale realises suddenly that he has reached a decision. “Actually, no, I don’t think you will.”

“Nah, OK, you’re right, with tonight’s good work we’ve definitely earned a sickie.”

“That’s actually not what I mean.”

Crowley pauses, turns, looks at him properly through the grey light. It will be dawn soon.

Aziraphale considers how to start. “Anathema was right, you know.”

Crowley winces.

“It’s ok, I won’t tell her. I’ll probably never see her again.”

“Angel, _what are you talking about_?”

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Crowley. You know what? There’s a bookshop, just beneath my flat, and it’s for sale. I’m going to buy it. I’m going to buy it and I’m going to sell rare books. And I will do my own accounts but I am never, ever going to do other people’s again.”

“Well, hurrah. I think that’s an absolutely splendid plan, angel. But… what about Borneo?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Regional Finance Director…”

“Oh, you heard about that did you? Laughable. Can you imagine me living in a shack on a beach?”

Crowley gapes. “Gabriel said…”

“And you believed him, dear boy? You continue to believe him, even after tonight?”

“Well, not on his own but… you said it to Stuart… and then… in the car earlier… you were saying goodbye…”

“Not because I’m going off to live in _Borneo_! My dear fellow…!”

“Then why…?”

“Because we won’t be colleagues anymore. I know I’m not… the sort of person you normally socialise with. Outside of work." Aziraphale pauses, wonders how honest he can be, here, now, at the end of all things. When he speaks next, his voice is small in the darkness. "I’ll miss you, though.”

Crowley produces a succession of spluttering noises which were probably intended to resemble speech. “Angel… do you really think that _I_ don’t want to see _you_ once we’re not colleagues anymore?”

“Oh I am sorry. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I don’t mean to fish for compliments, truly, or to put you in an awkward position. Something just happens to me when I’m around you and I–”

“Angel. Shut up, this is important. Are you honestly telling me you are planning to cut me out of your life because of an _inferiority complex_?”

Aziraphale wonders if the other man can feel the heat of his mortification across the no man's land that stretches between them. “Crowley, just leave it, please.”

“I can’t leave it.” Crowley hesitates, dredging up words in fits and starts. “You... mean... too much to me.”

“But that’s–”

Another pause, this one heavy with the anticipation of an oncoming fall. The air up here is too thin to sustain him; the downward trajectory, the fierce and disorientating rush towards the ground is inevitable.

He tries anyway. “Are you honestly going to make me say it?”

“Say what, angel?” Crowley, to his credit, does look genuinely confused. For the first time, Aziraphale wonders whether something which has seemed so glaringly obvious to him for the last six years can possibly, just possibly have escaped Crowley’s notice.

He looks away. He cannot get through this whilst gazing into his friend’s honey-brown eyes, across the foot or so of bed between them.

It's easier to speak with his eyes closed. “That’s the problem, Crowley. _You_ mean too much to _me_." Here it comes, the inevitable plunge, the fall. No parachute, nothing there to catch him. "I have… feelings… for you. I’ve tried to stop feeling this way, I’ve tried to bury it but I can’t. So I need to leave, Crowley, I need to say goodbye because I can’t carry on like this. Seeing you every day and loving you in secret… it’s killing me. I’m sorry.”

There is silence for a long moment, but the world, implausibly, does not end. Not yet. He sucks in a shuddering breath.

Finally, Crowley opens his mouth. Shuts it again. His eyes are wide. 

"Please... say something."

"You... don't. Love me. It's not true."

"I'm afraid it is."

"It can't be. You... you're not... and I'm so..."

"I know. I'm sorry."

_“You. Love. Me.”_

"Is it really so hard for you to understand?"

"But... all the things you said..."

"I was trying to protect you. Protect both of us. From... this. I know you don't... I know you don't feel the same way and that's – mhmmph!”

In a split second, before Aziraphale can see it coming – as if he would ever have believed it anyway – Crowley has closed the space between them. He presses his lips to Aziraphale’s own and it’s just as it was three years ago; the warmth, the soft pressure, the sparks, the swooping in his stomach. Crowley’s hand is on his cheek, cradling his face, fingertips tracing over his cheek and round, past his ear to the back of his neck with something like reverence. Aziraphale wonders if he might cry.

And then he parts his lips to admit Crowley’s tongue and it wipes all thought from his mind. He shuffles forward, across the bed, and Crowley is coming in to meet him until they are pressed together, head to toe, Crowley’s angles complimenting Aziraphale’s curves. There is nothing chaste about this kiss, nothing chaste in the entire situation, and for one blissful second Aziraphale closes his eyes and just goes with it, floating on the feeling. His hands brush over Crowley’s chest, his ribcage, down to his hip; Crowley growls low in his throat and pulls Aziraphale in closer. And then –

“Wait.” Crowley pulls back and every nerve in Aziraphale’s body is left screaming, bereft. “Wait, but you… with Hastur, last week… you said you were ‘sort of seeing someone’.”

Did he? Aziraphale can hardly think through the hazy fog of lust and sudden deprivation. 

“I, er… yes. I… I said it to Tom, because he didn’t seem to be getting the message that I wasn’t looking for a relationship.”

Crowley's whole face lights up; his eyes seem to sparkle. “You _LIED_?”

“Not… exactly. I did say sort of.”

“What 'sort of' technicality were you planning–”

What was the point in holding anything back now? “I meant you.”

“ _Ngk_!”

“I couldn’t give my heart to anybody else, because it was already yours. You just didn’t know it…”

“Bloody hell, angel, I’m going to have to–”

The rest of Crowley’s words disappear into Aziraphale’s mouth.

* * *

What does it matter who made the move, who spoke the words, who made the first entry in the ledger which would record the rest of his life, created anew in the fire of this moment? Aziraphale just knows that they are pressed up close once again: chest to chest, hip to hip, legs tangled, and it's all he's ever wanted. Almost all. He'll take this, just this once, a parting gift, even if Crowley doesn't feel it too, even if he hasn't said it...

And then.

And then Crowley’s hand is at his waist and he cannot help himself: an involuntary flinch passes through him and Crowley pulls back in alarm.

Growing up, as a young man… hell, until just three years ago, Aziraphale hadn’t given much thought to his weight, or to the way he looked. He always kept himself clean, tidy and well-groomed; he had standards. And then Gabriel’s slow incursion into his subconscious had begun, just before that ill-fated board meeting, with the words, “lose the gut”. He had never been able to stop hearing them, and they had been followed up by plenty more. Gradually, the concept had taken up residence in his head. He was fat, he was undesirable. He still went out on dates, but more and more often when he took people to bed he made sure that the lights were off, or that he remained dressed above the waist. If anybody proved particularly persistent in trying to get a look at his torso, he simply lavished attention on them – with his tongue, more often than not – and soon enough their focus migrated elsewhere. He was trying hard to reconcile himself to the way he looked. But he could not suppress a shudder when someone breached his defences and laid a hand on his soft midriff. He could not help but imagine what they must be feeling through their fingers; how disgusted they must be. They didn’t normally notice his reaction – or if they did, he was soon enough able to push the thought from their minds. But Crowley was different. Crowley had always been different.

“Angel, what’s wrong? Is this not… alright? Do you want to stop?”

“No! No. Definitely not. Just… cold, I’m just a bit cold. Sure you can warm me up…”

But Crowley knows him. Crowley is not fooled.

Gently, oh so gently, Crowley pushes Aziraphale onto his back and raises himself up on one elbow just above him. With his free hand he traces the shape of Aziraphale’s face, from his brow down his left cheek and to his lips. He is careful not to touch any part of Aziraphale’s chest or stomach.

“Angel. I’ve never said this before, because I never thought I would be allowed to say it. I was worried that every advance I made just pushed you further away. But you must let me say it now, or I’ll go mad.”

Aziraphale just looks up at him, biting his lower lip. Crowley’s eyes are bright and nervous, all trace of exhaustion banished.

“You know I’m not very good with words… but…” A pause, before Crowley pushes on, “you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen in the whole of my life. And I’ve seen a lot of – oh hell, scratch that part.” Crowley’s flush is visible even in the darkness. “Told you I wasn’t much of a wordsmith. Just know that when I look at you, every part of you, what it does to me… I… well, I’ve ever seen anyone to compare, male or female, in my bed or on a TV screen or anywhere else. And I have watched, these last few years, what that wanker Gabriel has done to you – how he’s used it as a way to control you, to keep you in your place. How he’s made you feel that your body is something to be ashamed of, something that falls short of an objective standard. That _you_ are something to be ashamed of.

“Now, I completely respect your boundaries. If there’s any part of you that you don’t want me to touch, I won’t, not until you’re ready. That’s a promise, angel. But I need you to know that there is no part of you that doesn’t turn me on. No part that I don’t want to stroke, or kiss, or sink my teeth into. No part that I haven’t imagined, when I… like this. And I don't just mean your body. You're my best friend, you're smart and funny and kind and _amazing_ and I... I want to be allowed to tell you that every day, to tell you and to show you until there’s no doubt in your mind that I worship the fucking ground that you walk on, angel. In case you’re still not clear, I… I love you. All of you. Just the way you are."

And just like that, Aziraphale is no longer falling. Realises he would never have hit the ground; has found wings he never knew he had.

He raises one hand to cover Crowley’s, which still traces patterns over his face, and then with one slow, deliberate movement he repositions both their hands on his own chest, just above the beating of his heart. His steady heart, which has been constant and true even as his mind forbade him to act. He’s not ready for all of it yet, not ready to strip off his t-shirt and turn the light on, or to feel kisses feathered over his soft stomach, but he trusts Crowley, he trusts him and he wants to give him this, give both of them this. Wants to take the first step towards believing he could be the man Crowley sees when he looks at him.

“Well, then. I think you’d better kiss me again.”

“If I must,” sighs Crowley, rolling his eyes as he leans in. He shifts slightly to his right so that his slender body covers Aziraphale’s, and begins to nip and lick the sensitive space just behind Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale squirms in delight, pressing up against Crowley’s weight and sighing breathily into his hair, before allowing his own hands to travel downwards along the long lines of the man above him.

For a couple of minutes now he has been able to feel the hard length of Crowley, pressed up against his leg or hip. Now he grips the other man's arse and pulls him inward; feels more than hears Crowley’s gasp against his neck at the sudden friction.

“Angel… if you’re going to want to stop, now would be…”

“Not on your life. Er, that is, if you are…?”

“Oh, I _am_.” 

And then Aziraphale is reaching between them, slipping past the hem of those silk pyjamas, down until he can feel Crowley, hot and hard in his palm. It is so easy to flip them over so that he is the one pressing Crowley into the mattress, although from the dazed look in his eyes the other man was not expecting it. Quickly ( _don’t crush him_ ) he pulls back, down, settles between Crowley’s thighs; slides that black silk down and away until his goal is before him. As his lips close around Crowley’s tip he feels reverent, given charge of something special and precious.

“Angel, holy fuck!”

He pulls off. “Yes, darling?”

“No, no, carry on. As you were. FUCK!”

“Just as you say.” And Aziraphale now turns all his attention to the task at hand. For a while he is lost in his own little world, just himself, his tongue and Crowley’s beautiful cock, but all too soon he feels fingers tighten in his hair as if in warning.

“Angel, I can’t… I’m gonna…”

Aziraphale redoubles his efforts; presses the other man down into the mattress as he licks, swirls and sucks relentlessly until Crowley comes down his throat with a stutter of hips and a volley of curse words. Only once he’s sure every drop is accounted for does he pull off and return to lie alongside Crowley, facing him, gazing into his eyes.

“Holy shit, angel,” breathes Crowley, when he can speak again. “You were… that was…”

“Yes, so I see, dear,” returns Aziraphale, happily and maybe just a tad smugly. _Crowley is not the only one who can do amazing things with his tongue_. He nestles against the other man’s side, content just to hold him.

“Oh my,” smiles Crowley (and doesn’t his face look different when he's like this, soft and sated?). “Angel… what on Earth are we going to do about _that_?” As he speaks he runs his fingers along the length of Aziraphale’s arousal, just through the thick fabric of his makeshift pyjamas, and Aziraphale nearly faints.

“Well, my dear, do you have anywhere I could, er, put it?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Fnar, fnar. I can’t _believe_ I’m in love with you. But oh my God, yes.” Crowley rolls onto his front and leans over to rummage in a drawer, body extending away long and supple under Aziraphale's hungry gaze, before passing back the necessary supplies. Aziraphale feels a frisson of excitement run through him as he takes the lube and the condom. For one stupid moment he wants to pinch himself because this cannot be real, this cannot be for him.

By unspoken agreement Crowley stays on his stomach, arse in the air, as Aziraphale breaches him gently with one well-lubed finger. He pushes back impatiently, trying to take Aziraphale further in, and Aziraphale tuts as he kisses him back down onto the mattress, working him open slowly and softly, then adding another finger. Crowley turns his head, desperate to reach Aziraphale’s lips, and he is only too happy to oblige him. Three fingers and Crowley writhes and squirms in his hold, gasping with each drag of Aziraphale’s fingers over his prostate.

“I’m ready, angel, I’m ready. Come on, I need you now, please!”

“Very well, my dear, since you ask so nicely.” Aziraphale wriggles quickly, one-handed, out of his makeshift pyjama bottoms, leaving the baggy t-shirt still in place. “I do just have one request, though…”

“Anything, anything, name it and its yours.” Crowley is almost begging.

“Would you turn over, so that I can see your beautiful face?”

Crowley rotates swiftly, wincing accusingly at the loss of Aziraphale’s fingers, but his eyes light up with a sort of feral hunger as he watches Aziraphale roll on the condom. By the look on his face as Aziraphale slowly pushes in and slides home, he is soon forgiven.

For one long, delicious moment he pauses, hips flush against Crowley’s backside, holding himself still just to enjoy the feeling of being entirely sheathed inside his beloved. Then Crowley shifts impatiently, the spell is broken and Aziraphale pulls almost all the way out before thrusting home again. Crowley wails – there is no other word for it – and Aziraphale wonders briefly about the soundproofing and the neighbours before losing himself in his task, his thrusts punctuating his thoughts. This is – it is better – this is like nothing else – the look on Crowley’s face – surely a mirror of his own.

Crowley's long legs wrap around him; his hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets. Their eyes meet in the grey light and Aziraphale feels, for the first time in his life, like something precious and wanted: not just a skilled lover, or a convenient one, but something longed for and treasured. Something loved.

He isn’t expecting Crowley to come again – they are men of a certain age, after all, and it has not been long since he sucked him dry – so he is taken by surprise when the other man’s release spatters over both of their chests. By the look on his face, Crowley wasn’t expecting it either. He clenches down around Aziraphale, and it is enough to tip him over the edge as he empties into Crowley with a grunt.

“Oh my… that was… come here,” murmurs Crowley, and Aziraphale sinks into his arms gladly, heedless of the sticky mess between them.

* * *

It is morning now; Crowley has tracked the pinky-grey light across his bedroom ceiling. Outside his wide windows, London is in full swing: one more Monday morning rushes to join its siblings in the past, both the same as before and utterly, beautifully different.

Crowley has broken every rule he ever made for himself.

He has slept with a colleague; someone who knows him, knows where he lives and where he can be found during working hours; someone who has his number, has a network of mutual acquaintances. Someone who has the power to hurt him.

He has taken that person home with him; allowed him to see the hallowed space which is Crowley’s and Crowley’s alone. Now his cries of ecstasy are etched into the concrete walls, his impression forever sunk into the sheets; the ghost of his toothbrush will lurk forever in the bathroom.

And Crowley has stayed. After their frantic lovemaking had subsided into gentle caresses and soft, slow, sleepy kisses; after Aziraphale had shuffled off to his bathroom and returned with a warm flannel to clean their spend from Crowley’s body; after he had fallen asleep with his warm, soft form splayed onto and around Crowley’s own, Crowley had lain in the semi-darkness, waiting apprehensively for those feelings of claustrophobia to arrive. Waited to feel stifled by the other man’s proximity; waited for the sweat drying between their bodies to make him feel dirty and used. Waited to feel that urgent need to escape; to run, to shower, to be clean and alone.

Instead, sleep had claimed him.

Today and the days that are to come will not be easy, Crowley knows. New relationships are difficult, and fraught with potential misunderstandings. His employment situation remains perilous, and Aziraphale, it seems, will not return to Heaven now. His angel is planning both a house move and a new occupation, and Crowley intends to support him every step of the way, if Aziraphale will let him. And then there is the blackmail situation. Who knows how that will pan out? Crowley’s never done it before.

But all of that can wait. Right here, right now; for once; suspended between the fast-flowing future and the irrevocable past, Crowley is exactly where he wants to be.

He stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we are! This story has lived in my head for such a long time and it feels amazing - brilliant and yet poignantly sad - to finally have it out in the world. 
> 
> There is a short epilogue which will follow tomorrow.
> 
> Lurk with me on Twitter: [@ElderlySardine](https://twitter.com/ElderlySardine?s=09)


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years later, Crowley has a question for Aziraphale.

**Three years later**

It isn’t romantic.

The lasagne has caught on the top, charring the creamy cheese sauce. He had forgotten to open the wine in time to allow it to breathe, and now he is struggling with the bloody corkscrew like a teenager attempting to open their first bottle. The normally pristine kitchen is a mess, worktops invisible beneath a cornucopia of wet vegetable peelings, dirty bowls, knives and chopping boards, packets of flour and escaped cheese gratings. Crowley had been planning to create a scene, a mood; to dim the lights and set some music playing and light a couple of candles and lay the table, so that when Aziraphale came in he would be dazzled.

Well… if he comes in now, he will certainly be surprised.

Aziraphale has been up in London all day, at his bookshop. Normally they go together in the Bentley, and Crowley holds meetings with his London-based clients whilst Aziraphale opens his shop and then staunchly guards his stock from any potential purchaser. (This is not too onerous. Now that they live in the South Downs Aziraphale only opens once or twice a week, and is careful to rotate the chosen days according to a complex and unpredictable pattern of his own devising, so customers are never that frequent and repeat business is almost unheard of.)

But today Crowley begged off, citing unruliness in the vegetable patch which needed to be supressed as a matter of urgency. It had been an excuse, nothing more; just a way of buying time so that he could create the atmosphere he wanted for tonight. But the day had felt long and empty when he had waved Aziraphale off from the station at ten past eight, and the pea plants _had_ been getting a little uppity, and before he knew it Crowley had been on his knees in the garden, coaxing the new growth with his patented blend of fertiliser and threats.

He had been stunned to realise that the day had passed without him. Suddenly and without warning it had been half past seven and Aziraphale had appeared at the back door, having walked the mile and a half back from the train station alone, his alarm at the unexplained absence of his lift home coalescing into fondness as he regarded the muddy form before him.

“Are you winning, dear?”

“Shit shit shit shit SHIT! I’m so sorry, angel!”

“Not at all, dear boy, not at all. Now, what do you fancy for supper? I bet you didn’t stop for lunch, did you?”

He hadn’t, but he’d burn in hell before he let Aziraphale cook his supper tonight, of all nights.

“I’ve got it, angel, it’s all sorted. Just you go and sit down. I’ll pour you some wine, and I know you’ve got that G K Chesterton on the go.”

Aziraphale had been despatched happily in the direction of their cosy front room, and Crowley had quickly scalded himself under the shower before whirling through their small kitchen, throwing ingredients haphazardly into a vegetable lasagne. Which he has now burnt.

Some interminable period of time later they sit together at the oak table, chewing ruggedly at the lasagne and picking small fragments of cork from their pinot noir. Shadwell, the scarred and greasy tom cat they appear to have inadvertently adopted, takes advantage of Crowley’s distraction to jump up on to the kitchen counter and lick up the spilt cheese.

“So, uh,” Crowley begins. “How was London?”

“Oh, same old, same old.” Aziraphale replies, airily. “It just feels so busy, compared to what we have now. I can hardly believe we used to do that every day.”

This feels like an opening. “Speaking of. Of. Of the time when we were in London every day…”

Aziraphale gazes at him encouragingly across the steamed broccoli.

“It was… it was. I don’t know whether you noticed, angel, but it was three years ago today that we… that we…”

“Drove through the night, broke into the office, confronted and blackmailed two thieves, went to bed together and confessed our love for the first time?”

“Ngk. Yes. That.” Crowley’s throat is dry; he takes a big gulp of wine and almost chokes.

“Is that what this spread is in aid of?” asks Aziraphale, when Crowley can breathe again.

“Yes, I… that and…”

Crowley discards his rubbery pasta and cork-infused wine, pushes back his chair and forces himself to catch and hold Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Angel… I just wanted to say… still not good with words…”

“Take your time.”

Crowley has practiced this in front of the mirror. He steadies his voice. “These three years have been the best of my life. Never for a single moment have I regretted any of it: leaving Heaven, starting out on my own, selling the flat, buying this cottage. Every day I feel happy to wake up in your arms.” The air smells faintly of burnt cheese; out in the hallway the fire alarm goes off. Aziraphale flaps at it irritably, eyes fixed on Crowley, who has to raise his voice a little to compete.

“Sometimes I can’t believe that this is my life, that I really get to have this. To have you. I feel so privileged to be allowed to touch you, to kiss you, to watch you sleep. Is that creepy?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. No, no it isn’t.

“And I want to be allowed to keep this, this feeling, having you in my arms and in my bed and in my heart.” This is it. Crowley slips to his knees. One knee. Cheese supplies exhausted, Shadwell launches himself from the kitchen counter with a clatter of breaking crockery and then zooms through the dining room in a blur of matted grey fur. Neither man reacts.

“Aziraphale Fell, will you marry me?”

* * *

Aziraphale Fell looks around at the life they have made. At the antique furniture and the solid, impenetrable walls of the old stone cottage; the burnt food and the corky wine; the cacophony of the fire alarm and the trail of destruction left in the wake of the cat. At all of that, and at the beautiful man on one knee before him, shyly offering up a ring box, the uncertainty clear in his eyes as if even now, after all this time, he thinks there is a chance that Aziraphale might say no.

It has not all been plain sailing. That time three years ago, those first weeks and months after they had peeled themselves apart and out of bed, had been the most challenging of their professional lives. Aziraphale, once his mind was made up, had been implacable. He had never set foot inside Heaven's offices again. Crowley had been the one to report back to him on Gabriel's shock resignation, the stunning and unexpected anonymous donation of £1.5m, and then (a genuine surprise to them both) the new merger with the Young Trust. Had that been part of Adam and Warlock's plan all along? Certainly, Adam is quite something. Aziraphale has never quite been able to decide whether he is an overgrown school boy acting purely on instinct to keep himself amused, or an untempered genius with a mind like a knife. Crowley says he is both. 

And Aziraphale has watched Crowley struggle. He saw his fear in those first few days, before they could be sure that Gabriel would give back the money. Watched him summon up the courage to walk away from Heaven and from Adam, and strike out into the unknown with his own accountancy practice. He held him through those early days when clients were few and far between, bolstering his confidence with a certainty he did not feel.

In their personal lives too, it has been a long and sometimes painful journey. He has watched Crowley put himself down, behave as if he is a lesser creature than Aziraphale, and somehow not worthy of his love. The realisation had stunned him; had completely inverted the idea he had carried for six years, that Crowley must know just how untouchable and perfect he was. Now he works hard every day to let Crowley know that here, now, in this new life they have built together, he is enough.

And in return he has seen how hard Crowley has tried to rebuild Aziraphale’s own fractured self-confidence: how tactfully, with what care and respect, he has shown that he worships every part of Aziraphale’s body, from the silver stretchmarks on his thighs to the soft, pillowy swell of his stomach. When Aziraphale stops to think about it it still feels implausible, that someone who looks like Crowley could possibly be turned on by someone who looks like Aziraphale. And yet the evidence is before him, night after night, and these days he stops to think about it less and less.

Joy flashes through him, quick and sparky, and he allows a smile to take over his whole face as he fingers the matching ring box in his own pocket. He had loved for so long in secret, in the dark, and allowing his love to shine out in the bright light of day, where anyone could see it, still gives him a thrill.

He withdraws his hand carefully, fingers closed around their prize; drops gently to join Crowley on the floor. Allows the other man to see his answer, sitting on his open palm, bright and proud. Watches as understanding dawns across those beloved features, as the clouds on Crowley's face part to make way for... whatever this is. Whatever comes next. Which they will face, together.

It isn’t romantic, this life they have made together. They never will inspire poetry or music; their love will not resound across the years like that of some modern-day Romeo and Juliet. Their relationship takes hard work, and love, and understanding; tolerance, patience and good humour. But Aziraphale knows that of all the projects he has ever worked on, of all the problems he has ever tried to solve, of all the effort he has ever made – it is this one, only this one, which is truly worthwhile.

No, it isn’t romantic… but in the great ledger of the rest of their lives, this merger of equals is the only one that counts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after, but I am rather sad to let them go.
> 
> I loved writing this so much, I've started a new story! It's early days but this one is shaping up to be an international, fake dating road trip. At the moment it isn't a human AU, but I might still chicken out and turn it into one, as that's what I feel more comfortable writing. It'll be a little while yet (this one took three months to write, at a rate of 1-2 hours a week) but do check back if you've enjoyed Merger of Equals 🙂


End file.
